


Cerulean Blue

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And the Heir to the North, Angst?, Arranged Marriage, Ashley said if I didn't finish this she'd force me to read Jonsa, At first :), F/M, Fluff, It's hard for me to judge, Jon is a Stark, Mistaken Identities (Kind of?), N plus A equals J, Reunions, Romance, The Lannisters are still assholes, The Seven Kingdoms were never united, You'll see what I mean, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 85,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: When Jon agrees to a betrothal to the newly-found Princess Daenerys Targaryen, he cannot help but wonder if the marriage will be doomed from the start.  He will do his duty, unite their Houses and help lead the war against their common enemies, but he remains haunted by the love he found, and lost, seven years prior, across the Narrow Sea.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 412
Kudos: 1161





	1. Betrothal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashleyfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyfanfic/gifts), [QuietlyAnonForThis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietlyAnonForThis/gifts), [NoOrdinaryLines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoOrdinaryLines/gifts).



> This is....different. Mwa ha ha. This is a story in which you, the reader, understand very quickly the identity of who our boy Jonno falls in love with at the age of sixteen. And I have no doubt you'll know, very quickly, some other things as well. This story consists of our current day Jon, as he journeys to meet the woman he's agreed to marry, intermixed with flashbacks that tell the story of his first love. Not to worry, though, as I always do happy endings, so everything will be sorted out by our conclusion!
> 
> This story is DONE, so it's one I'll be posting in chunks, probably one every day or two, 'til we're done. I gotta keep you peeps fed in these troubling Corona times, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Big huge shout outs to Ashley, NoOrdinaryLines, and Zarya1640, who read this thing and assured me it was suitable for consumption. They haven't read the ending, though, so they get enjoy a little suspense, too :)
> 
> Pardon my boo-boos I'm sure I'll fix them eventually.

His father’s solar had become suffocating, the heat from the fire and the weight of the furs about his neck threatening to steal the air from his chest as Jon read the scroll through again.

And again.

By the third reading he had found his breath again, and he reluctantly looked up to find the King in the North staring at him from behind his great wooden desk, watching him closely.

“Son,” he said, his voice brusque and clipped as always, cold as ever but not without a layer of kindness, “We ought to consider the offer.”

Jon’s cheeks rounded slightly, a heavy exhale escaping as he considered the truth in his father’s words. Times had grown increasingly dangerous, and though the North had been on guard for years, closed off and wary to enter the fray of war that had consumed several of the kingdoms to the South, that would not be the case for much longer.

The Lannisters were on the move, at last, taking the Stormlands and the Reach, marching, at last report, for their allies in the Riverlands, and the Vale as well.

“A betrothal,” Jon uttered, gray eyes flitting again to the scrap of paper in his hand, the crackling of the fire the only response his words earned. It was a decent match, by any calculation. Jon could see the benefits, intellectually; The Targaryens had remained above the fray, as well, reclusive since the death of the King Aerys of Dragonstone and his Queen Rhaella at a tourney in the Vale, some seven years prior.

It was hard for Jon to keep up, at times, with what had come before, especially then. He had suffered his own losses, then, borne his own wounds, and hadn’t had the slightest inclination to learn what had befallen Westeros, not at the time.

That knowledge had come later.

After Lys.

After her.

Finally, his father spoke, each word careful and considered. “’Tis not much left to the Targaryens, or so they say, save their island, and their steel, and their number is few. But times, and circumstances, have changed. And we must change as well, all of us, or we shall none of us survive what is to come.” The older man nodded to himself, and as Jon gazed at his father it struck him how very tired King Eddard looked, how weary. But something had sparked in the old King’s eye, as he spoke, and it was this that drew Jon’s curiosity, despite his misgivings. He leaned forward in his seat.

“What do you mean, father? What has changed?” Though the room was dark, save for the firelight, Jon could see a rare smile dance across the man’s lips.

“The fates have seen fit to restore to House Targaryen what was lost to them, my boy. And now, let us hope, they will use those gifts to the benefit of us all.” A notion crept into Jon’s mind, then, one almost too fantastic to be believed, and he took a shaky breath, his eyes widening, as he finally stood. “The Princess Daenerys has been found at last, and with her, she brings her own armies. And,” his father drawled, standing and rounding his stately desk, coming to clap a heavy hand on Jon’s shoulder, “dragons.”

“Truly?” It was more than his imagination could fathom, really. Dragons HAD existed, once upon a time, and it had been the Targaryens who commanded them, the Targaryens who’d mastered their secrets and learnt to forge Valyrian Steel from their flames.

But hundreds of years ago, the dragons had died, and House Targaryen had begun to die with it. They never strayed from their island Kingdom, not in all the time they’d dwelt on than small stretch of land. Fleeing their own doomed motherland, they had left the native Westerosi largely to their own warring ways, intermarrying here and there, and making a mountain of gold selling their fabled swords and daggers and, for the very lucky buyer, full sets of mail.

That they had returned, that once again, real, fire-breathing dragons might be spotted in the Westerosi sky was a concept that filled Jon with an excitement that came surprisingly close to eclipsing the gut-wrenching agony that blazed inside him, at the very notion of this betrothal.

“Aye, Jon,” his father said, bringing their faces close, his voice lowering to a whisper. “A great war is coming, my son, and we must be ready. We can hide away no longer. We need this alliance, now more than ever.”

Jon gnawed at his lower lip, his fingers rolling and unrolling the scroll as he thought. It was all true, what his father said. If the Targaryens truly had dragons, once more, that would be a far greater defense against whatever fight the Lannisters meant to bring to them than he could ever had dreamed. He was young, still, at three-and-twenty, and he thought the lost Targaryen princess to be of similar age, if memory served.

It was the betrothal itself that was the problem, that filled him full of dread even as he knew what he must do.

Jon had been betrothed twice, and married once. His first betrothal, in his sixteenth year, to the daughter of the King Beyond the Wall, had ended in misery and pain, the flame-haired girl leaving him for dead, littered with arrows, paying the blood price with her own life when he’d managed to crawl his way back to the encampment in the Haunted Forest.

Without Ghost, Jon doubted he would have made it at all.

His second betrothal, two years prior, to the Westerling girl, had been without affection, or even any notion of friendship. He had wed her, of course, as his father had wished, but he’d found it hard to lay with her, guilt rising in him like bile once his task had been done, his eyes flying open to find brown hair spread upon the pillow, instead of silver.

The Westerling girl had died of a fever more than a year ago, and it brought Jon no small amount of shame that he rarely thought of her.

Even after all this time, with seven years to dull the pain, to diminish the memories, it was always and ever her. Only her. His moonlight beauty, with eyes like the ocean, who’d stolen his heart in the very same year he’d nearly lost his life, on the distant island of Lys.

His heart had grown beyond measure in his sixteenth year, been filled to the brim, then broken and crushed to dust, all in six moons time, in a land of blazing sun and long, summer days. Jeyne Westerling hadn’t ever stood a chance, not even against a memory, or the ghost of one.

His heart only beat for his sweet, silver-haired Dany of Lys. Still.

Forever.

Jon hung his head, and closed his eyes, feeling the parchment twist beneath his fingers.

When he opened them, when his eyes met his Lord Father’s, he saw the sympathy there, but the iron as well. This must be done. It had to be.

If Jon could not let her go, he must try, finally, to move on. It was his duty. He must do this, to protect his people, to make a powerful alliance that could promise unmatched military might.

“Aye,” Jon finally said lowly, nodding his assent. “I shall do it, father.”

Perhaps this third betrothal might be his last. Perhaps this Targaryen Princess could do what others might not. Perhaps he could finally, truly let go of the love he had held then lost, find room in his heart for another.

He owed it to his people, to his father, to try.

King Eddard squeezed his shoulder, the pressure barely hindered by his leathers and furs. The relief that swamped his father’s face was almost enough to dull the sting of what he was considering. It was madness, to feel as though he was betraying his lost love, for she was surely dead and gone. He needed to move on.

He must.

“Thank you, Jon.” His father’s chest heaved in a sigh, and to Jon’s surprise he found himself pulled into a tight, only marginally stiff embrace. “I know it is hard, my son. I know what it is, to feel as though your heart is gone, only a shard of ice left behind.” He cuffed Jon’s ear lightly, affectionately. “But you owe it to yourself to try, lad. It’s been long, and you cannot ignore your duty forever.”

Jon swallowed hard, meeting his father’s eyes, eyes of iron, so much like his own. “We shall make this work, father. The stakes are far too high for anything less.”

The King’s face wrinkled, his lips pressed tight together, and Jon was shocked to see how glassy the older man’s eyes grew. “I am proud of you, Jon. I wish there was another way, I wish I need not ask this of you, but there is no other way.”

His hand crept up to cover his father’s, and he patted it awkwardly, unused to seeing his father so outwardly emotional. They were men of the North, men of ice and snow and iron and stone. They did not avail themselves of overwrought sentimentality, and he wasn’t sure what to say to the man. Jon cleared his throat. “When do I leave?”

Jon’s question seemed to snap the old King from his hazy wistfulness, and the man’s eyes sharpened, his father straightening and pulling his hands away. “Three days’ time, lad. Best make your preparations.”

He returned to his quarters, to ponder what was now set before him, spent hours in deep, gloomy consideration, before he finally extinguished the candles and lay his weary head upon his pillow. He would dream, he knew, and on this night he welcomed it. His dreams were always the same.

Always of her.

\----------

_Jon stepped clumsily from the old smuggler’s dinghy, splashing through the clear, knee-deep water and climbing gratefully to the shore._

_Old Gods preserve him, he *hated* sailing._

_He looked around, turning in a slow circle and taking in his surroundings, his left arm throbbing at the shoulder, though his sling was still secure._

_So, he thought, this was Lys._

_It was certainly warmer than the North, that much was for certain. The cold didn’t much bother those of Stark blood; His father, the King, liked to jest they were all born with ice in their veins. But this place, this little island so far from his home, far across the Narrow Sea, was downright balmy._

_Davos pulled the small skiff past the tideline, to nestle amongst tall tropical trees he’d never seen before. “What are they?” He pointed at the fringed, floppy green leaves at the crown, that created a welcome canopy of shade against the bright, burning sun above._

_“Palm,” Davos grunted, his eyes searching then lighting up as he spied something in the scrubby undergrowth. He leaned low, his hands grasping at a rough, brown orb, and he held it out for Jon’s inspection._

_It was scratchy against his palm, but heavy, and when Jon shook it he heard something jostle inside, as though a liquid were contained within._

_“That’s a coconut, Your Grace.” The older man leaned an arm against the nearest palm trunk, catching his breath. “And you’d better get used to them, lad, because they’re all over the bloody place here.” Jon frowned down at the object, shaking it again, only looking up when he heard Davos let loose with a rough laugh. “You aren’t in the North anymore, Prince Jon.”_

_\----------_

_Davos was right._

_Lys, he was discovering, was an altogether different animal than the land of his birth. Gone were the icy, snowy hills, the thick, forbidding forests where game could be found under every mound of brush and the grey peaks of the Flint mountains could be seen on this distant horizon._

_He found it almost unsettling, here, to stand in the doorway of the smuggler’s small, but tidy, beach shack, staring out into the bluest waters he’d ever seen, and see nothing at all on the horizon but sky._

_That first night, Davos helped him tend the wounds that punctured his left shoulder; Three angry, red, slowly healing welts of flesh that marked the place where the Wildling girl’s arrows had pierced him. He would not even think her name, the one he had been betrothed to, who’d taken him out with a hunting party, before they were to be wed before the Old Gods, in the Kingdom Beyond the Wall, only to fill him with arrows and leave him for dead._

_But Jon was no tender child, he was a man of sixteen, and with every ounce of strength he’d managed to scrape together, with Ghost at his side, he’d stumbled and crawled back to the camp._

_She was dead, by her own sire’s hand, and his own father was no doubt weighing whether this would mean a true war. The marriage was meant to bring about a more sustainable peace, to bind together those north of the Wall to those south of it, to end thousands of years of strife._

_The Gods only knew there was plenty of that afoot already._

_And here he was, tucked safely away, like he was some bloody maid in a tower, to heal while his father plotted his next move._

_Jon winced, biting back a cry when Davos cleaned his wounds with a pungent soap and wet linens. He bit at his lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, when the man gently spread on a sharp, medicinal salve that the King in the North, Eddard Stark, had ordered his healers to provide._

_The smuggler was firmer with the clean bandages, winding it around Jon’s shoulder and slightly down his arm, tying it off with a tug. “There now, Your Grace, right as rain.” The man’s endless cheer was welcome, most of the time, but in the moment it was rather grating. Jon could not find much to be cheerful about, just now, save that he lived._

_“Best not to go shouting that about, Ser.” Jon eyed the man crossly as he arched his back, trying to ease the tightness in his muscles. “Here I am just Jon.” He didn’t know how the old man had come into his father’s service, in fact, but he was one of the few that Ned Stark seemed to truly trust, and folk of that sort were increasingly hard to come by._

_“Ah,” Davos said, eyes twinkling in the lamp light, “that’s right. Well, Just Jon,” he said, with an exaggerated air, “let me show you to your less than royal accommodations.”_

_Jon rose slowly, painfully, pulling his sling back on and cradling his left arm close to his body as he followed Davos to the back of the shack, only divided from the front by a hanging curtain, finding to narrow cots along the walls. He’d slept on much the same, in his brief stay at Castle Black, and he wasn’t going to complain like a spoiled, pampered little prince. The linens and thin blanket were worn but looked clean, down pillows that looked to be in serviceable shape on each, and when Davos gestured that he might take whichever he liked, he picked the one to his right._

_And as he settled in to sleep, he was grateful for somewhere to lay his head, praying to the Old Gods as his eyes shuttered closed that they might protect his family, and keep them safe, in the wars still to come._

_\---------_

_It was his second day, in the little cove at the very tip of the island, when Davos told him he was leaving._

_“Lad, I’ve got a run to make, but I can swear to you, there’s no place safer than here for you.” Jon didn’t doubt the man’s words; there was not a soul about in this isolated spot save for the two of them, and some inordinately loud marine birds who had taken up roost right outside the small window by Jon’s cot._

_Before Jon could reply, as though Davos anticipated meeting with some form of resistance to the idea, Davos walked him to the large trunk between their cots. “Got plenty of dried fruits and meats in there, and there’s more to be had around the island, if you hunt around a bit. Wouldn’t hurt for you to get a wee bit of sun, either, but be careful.” Davos peered at him, seeming to notice the way Jon winced when he turned too quickly, his shoulder screaming with the swift movement. “Got some bottles of rum by the door, might help take the edge off.” He squinted at Jon, something knowing in his eyes. “But mind yourself on that as well, Your Grace.”_

_That settled Jon’s lingering question as to whether the smuggler had brought any Northern ale, he thought with a sigh, frowning as he looked around. “And what am I meant to do, while you are gone?”_

_Davos shook his head, wonderingly. “Heal, lad. Hide. Heal, and hide, that’s what your father ordered, and that’s what you will do. Don’t go wandering off too far, now, lest you run into folk with less than pure intent towards you.”_

_Jon’s brow furrowed, as he followed Davos out into the morning sun, watching the man check his pack and glance about as though he feared he was forgetting something. “I thought we were alone here,” the young Prince groused, but the smuggler spared him only the barest of looks._

_“You will be,” he said, as he rummaged through a crate by the shack door. “But caution is it’s own reward, Just Jon.” Davos pulled free a scroll, a large one at that, presenting it to Jon with a flourish. “Everything you need, ‘til I come back, can be found nearby. I’m no mapmaker, but I tried to draw out what I could remember. Don’t use this shack much, but there’s a freshwater pool not far from here, and plenty of tasty things to eat if you’re willing to rummage for them.”_

_The man rushed on, not even sparing for a single interruption for Jon, clearly in a hurry to be off. “You’re a capable lad, Jon Stark, and one day you’ll be King. I reckon you can fend for yourself for a bit, eh? You are no soft, Southron boy, after all.”_

_Jon knew he was being goaded, knew the man’s cajoling tone was meant to prompt some puffed up, proud response from him, but the truth was his shoulder ached and his head was beginning to pound. He wasn’t used to all this sun and sand and salt, and the heat was almost unbearable._

_“Aye, alright then, Davos. I can take care of myself.” The old smuggler had spoken true, at least, in that fact. Jon *wasn’t* some soft, Southron son, pampered and coddled. The North was hard, and had made him hard, as well, and he was a boy no longer. His father had been wedded by Jon’s age, and had the King Beyond the Wall’s daughter not tried to end his life before their wedding, he’d be wed already, too._

_“Good lad,” Davos said, seemingly done with his reassurances, his focus turning solely to preparing for departure._

_But as Jon sat on the white, sandy shore, his hand shielding his eyes from the too-bright, scorching sun above, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness, as the man who’d delivered him to these shores rowed his skiff back to his ship, anchored just off the coastline._

_It was going to be a long, silent few weeks, he suspected._

_\---------_

_By his third day, alone, Jon had reached several realizations._

_The first was that, despite his mother’s Dornish blood running through his veins, he absolutely fucking hated sand._

_He loathed it._

_It got everywhere, a fine, dusty coating that caked his skin, and crept into his nostrils, and in other crevices that were best left free of the grainy nuisance._

_At least snow had the decency to melt away, but sand…ugh, sand remained, persistent and grating on his nerves._

_The second realization was that he did not care for the hot, sweltering climate. He’d burned himself in the sun, the day prior, falling asleep on the shore once the tide had gone out, waking up to find the skin of his face and bared chest tender and pink, and this morning blisters had begun to arrive in patches of skin that now felt as though they were set aflame._

_Now that he had fully experienced both, Jon thought it much better to freeze than to burn, if given a choice._

_The third, and final realization, was that for as much as he’d longed to be left to his own devices, for as much as he had wished and prayed for some damned privacy, for time that belonged solely to him, that he was not fashioned for loneliness._

_He missed his father. He missed his sisters, no matter how aggravating they were from time to time. Hells, he even missed Theon’s constant needling and aggravating, his father’s ward usually trying to one-up him every chance he got._

_But most of all, he missed Ghost, his Direwolf, though he understood the wisdom in leaving him behind in the snowy winter Keep._

_Ghost would hate it here, he knew, just like he himself did._

_Jon sat in the thin sliver of shade thrown by Davos’s small shack, his legs splayed out before him, sipping absently at the rum that the smuggler had left._

_He was doing the best he could to tend to his healing wounds, opting today not to wear the sling on his arm, but it was still slow going, especially when he tried to bandage the punctures himself. But Davos had been right, the rum certainly took the edge off._

_It also made him nap, quite frequently in fact, and made his head pound if he had too much._

_Today, Jon wondered if it was not also affecting his vision, because as he sat and squinted and sipped, it seemed to him that someone was walking down the shoreline._

_His stomach flipped, and not from the rum this time, one hand clenching and unclenching nervously as the figure drew closer and closer._

_Then, as she came into sharper view, Jon realized it was a girl. His breath whooshed out, his fear growing exponentially._

_She looked innocent enough, probably of age with him, judging by the curves of a body barely hidden in a gauzy, filmy shift that would be considered practically nude by Northern standards. In one arm she held a basket, and every now and then she would kneel down on the sand, silver hair braided back away from her face but hanging loose about her shoulders, her hand sifting and searching._

_She was looking for shells, he thought._

_Or, perhaps, in that basket she had a dagger, the edge slick with poison, and once she was upon him she would slit his throat._

_Jon reached to his side, covertly gripping the dagger that lay at his side, his body tensing, preparing to fight if he must._

_The girl acted as though she did not see him, but he knew she must. Surely the shade he’d tucked himself into did not hide him completely, for his bare feet extended past that demarcated line, the sun warming the digits, and he wiggled them anxiously as she came nearer and nearer._

_Finally, she was close enough for him to make out the features of her face, and his breath escaped him again, because he was certain, now, that he was imagining her._

_Jon had never, in all his sixteen years, seen a maid as beautiful as this one._

_She was slight in stature, with fine, delicate features; deceptively sweet, he thought, her lips full and plump and pink, her brows arched and refined, the aquiline line of her nose making her look almost regal in bearing. But when her eyes finally met his, he was floored, sinking back against the rough wall of the shack._

_They were of a color that matched the sea just behind her, an arresting blue-green that seemed ethereal, as though she were some sort of sea goddess who’d been birthed by the steady pulsing waves that crashed into the shore._

_His hand tightened on his dagger when she gave him a tiny smile._

_The girl stopped, a few yards away, stiffening as though his presence had possibly unnerved her, as well. Maybe he’d been better camouflaged than he thought._

_“Hullo,” she called, and waved her hand in a friendly manner, though she made no move to come closer._

_The bright sun made her hair look like spun silver._

_Jon had never seen anything like it._

_He knew, in theory, that there were many in Essos in possession of such hair, due to their Valyrian ancestry, but in Westeros there were only the Targaryens, the Dragonstone royals, who had such. It was a rarity, there, but here, he supposed, it must be as common as his own raven locks were in the North._

_Still, it was a breathtaking combination, her silver hair, and ocean eyes, and lightly tanned skin, so different from his own paleness that had reddened in this new climate._

_She was dangerous. His mind screamed it. His eyes trailed downward, to find that the scant fabric did less than he thought to disguise what lay below, the shadow of her breasts enough to make him swallow hard. He understood, intellectually, that the hot, salty breezes and baking sun no doubt required the Lyseni to dress as such, but he hadn’t been prepared for the truth of it._

_He dragged his eyes back up to meet hers, swallowing hard once more before he finally spoke. “What do you want, then?” His low, growling question seemed to catch her off guard, her chin tipping to the side as she studied him, her smile drooping and morphing into a slight frown._

_“Oh, I-,” she stammered, seeming flustered at his rudeness, “I did not mean to disturb you.” She took a step closer, and his hand clenched on the dagger, his other raising the cup of rum to his lips as he took a sip. If she moved to draw a weapon, he’d throw the potent liquid in her face if he must, hating the disadvantage he was currently at with one bad arm._

_“Then go away,” he muttered, purposefully turning his gaze from her to the sea behind her, though he kept her in his periphery._

_She took another step. “It’s just,” she began, faltering before starting again. “It’s just, I saw you on the beach yesterday, sleeping, and it looked as though you had burned yourself.” Another step, and he reluctantly glanced at her, not knowing what to make of the way her breath seemed to catch when their eyes met. “I see now I was right.” The concern that flitted across her face seemed to Jon to be unnatural. This girl was a stranger. Why would she seem so distraught about the state of his skin, or his person in general?_

_Unless, of course, she’d be sent here by another._

_His father harbored the idea that it had been the Lannisters behind the attempt on Jon’s life, though even Jon himself found it hard to believe that the Lions would ever ally themselves with the unruly Wildlings who dwelt beyond the Wall._

_But if his father was right, perhaps this girl was allied with them as well, sent to beguile him with her beauty and pretended sweetness before plunging a blade into his heart and finishing the job._

_“That’s no concern of yours,” he ground out, ignoring the slight twist in his innards when she seemed genuinely hurt by his clear disdain. He would not be weak, not again, would not have his head turned and mind addled by her loveliness._

_It was a battle, years of propriety and solicitousness having been pounded into him, as the heir to the Winter Throne warring with the desire to rid himself of this unearthly beauty’s presence before his weakness got the better of him. He would not yield, would not soften._

_The girl seemed deeply offended, now, and dipped a hand into her basket, and for once tense, heart-stopping moment he prepared himself to see the flash of steel as her hand withdrew._

_But instead, she scowled at him, remaining where she was, a threw a small tin in his direction. “You’re welcome,” she said crossly, and pivoted on her heel, stalking back across the sand to wherever it was she’d emerged from. “Put it on your bloody burns, you arse,” she called scornfully over her shoulder, her hair trailing in a silver blaze behind her._

_Jon watched her go, waited until she was gone, before he slid forward, taking the tin in his hand and pulling the lid free. Raising it to his nose, he smelled it, trying to detect any hint of poison. It smelled of almost nothing, slightly green and gelatinous, and realizing that there was a chance he’d been wrong, Jon swiped a tentative finger through it, careful not to take too much._

_If it was a poison that could seep through the skin, he would test it first, only a small spot, to see if that the girl claimed was true. He rubbed the substance in a small circle on his chest, where the skin had begun to bubble._

_He was surprised when, in a matter of moments, the burning sensation in his skin began to ease._

_Maybe he was an arse, he thought, with a hint of bitterness. Or maybe she was merely trying to worm her way into his good graces, so that she might slip close enough to end his life._

_He took a sip of rum, sighing and leaning back against the shack once more, to consider his lonely existence._

\-----------

True to the King in the North’s word, three days later Prince Jonnel of House Stark, Crown Prince and Heir to the Winter Throne, left Winterfell.

He rode away, a small contingent of guards riding with him, Ghost running ahead, darting in and out of view like a phantom against the white, glistening snow.

Jon let himself look back, once, and wondered if he would ever see his home again.

One hand strayed to the chain ‘round his neck, as hoofbeats sounded steady in his ears, in time with his heart. On that thin silver chain, lay a ring, the only thing of Dany’s that he possessed, one last token retrieved from the ash and soot and embers of a burned manse a lifetime ago.

He ought to have left it behind, if he truly meant to let her go.

But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

\-----------

By the time Dragonstone appeared on the horizon, a moon had passed, and in that time he had done a great deal of brooding, working himself into a dreadfully awful state of melancholy.

The Keep was large, dark, dreadfully intimidating.

Jon was relieved.

It was a small reminder of his own home, austere and sprawling, though here he could spy the green grasses that grew upon the land, until it gave way to sheer, craggy cliff faces, with steep, plunging drops to the churning seas below.

He saw no massive, fire-breathing mounts circling the skies, and he wondered if the rumors that had reached his father were true. He hoped they were, he thought, digging his hand into the white ruff of fur at Ghost’s neck.

The wolf hated sailing about as much as he did, and both man and beast had spent the first days of this journey green under the gills, sick and glum and hanging over the railing.

“Ought to be there in two days, Your Grace.”

Davos, he knew, meant the declaration to be encouraging, and Jon fought his instinctual gloominess to cling to the scraps the man gave him.

“Aye,” he said, his stare never straying from the approaching island, “thank the Old Gods. I shall be glad to be off this boat, at least.”

The grizzled sailor said nothing, and everything, in his silence. Jon had only made one other voyage by sea, ferried away from the North under cover of night after the attempt on his life, as his father dealt with the traitorous amongst the wildling people, finally making a tenuous peace with the King Beyond the Wall. But Jon had been sent away, to recover, to heal, to regain himself.

Davos had taken him to Lys, seven years ago, and Jon could not help but be reminded of that journey now. How different it had been, his arm bound and slung to his body tightly, his eyes drinking in the bright blue skies and strange trees, the crystalline waters that lapped up onto white, sandy beaches.

Lys had been a paradise, to his young eyes, so unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

Dany, he recalled with a small, fond smile, had been the same. A paradise, a discovery, everything he never knew he’d wished for.

Jon had spent the journey home, six moons later, clutching her ring, alternately sobbing and screaming at the remembrance of the charred remains of her body, in the ruins of Illyrio’s manse. Only Davos had known the true extent of his sorrow, how his young heart had been utterly devastated, nothing left inside him but debris.

Cutting his eyes to the man, now, he saw the knowing look, knew without speaking that Davos, more than anyone, understood his trepidation.

It was nice, he mused, to have the man there, to have someone with him who knew what had come before.

When he was King, he would make Davos his Hand. The man surely deserved it, had been a constant steadiness in Jon’s life when he’d felt adrift.

“I hear,” Davos said, coming to stand astride Jon and placing his hands along the rail, his eyes on the horizon, “that the Targaryen Princess is a true beauty.”

Jon grunted in acknowledgement. He had heard much the same, as though that ought to sway him, to win him over. Loveliness was nice, but he very much doubted even this Mother of Dragons, as they called her, could ever compare to his lost love. “That is my understanding.”

Davos cleared his throat gruffly. “You ought to give the girl a fighting chance, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

The Winter Prince rolled his eyes, though he knew Davos spoke truly. “I shall.”

“Not while you still wear her ring.” Cutting his eyes to the side, he saw how Davos stared at the chain still around his neck. “Not while you still belong to another.”

“I’m trying, Davos.” He hated the way his voice broke, hated the way heat rose in his face, the way his eyes grew hot and wet. “I still have time, though it diminishes by the day.”

“Time for what?” Finally, he turned, fully facing the old smuggler, as he heard the man’s quiet question.

Jon toyed with the chain, pulling the ring from under his tunic and tracing each line and swoop and swirl of the metal with his eyes in the dying sunlight. “To say goodbye.” His jaw clenched, he pivoted on his heel, gripping the rail tightly as he trained his gaze to Dragonstone, where his future lay. “I should like some time alone, if you don’t mind.”

Davos left him, without another word, leaving just Jon and his wolf to stare into the distance.

Jon closed his eyes, and let himself remember.

_\-----------_

_The next morning, Jon awoke with a pounding headache, no doubt from drowning his lonely sorrows in Davos’s rum stash, but at least his skin no longer pained him with every movement._

_In a fit of desperation, after suffering no ill effects from his earlier test, he’d slathered himself in the gooey substance his mysterious visitor had thrown at him, and he allowed himself a small, tight smile at realizing it had worked splendidly well._

_Though there were still blistered spots, his skin was no longer tight and lobster red, the burned appearance faded slightly and, though sticky, felt remarkably healed._

_The only drawback to this miraculous remedy was how sticky and grimy he felt, because while it did create a soothing, cooling layer everywhere he’d rubbed it, it never fully absorbed, and it seemed to attract the gritty white sand at an even greater rate._

_He needed to bathe._

_Jon chewed absently on some dried jerky, grumbling when he went to fill his water skin only to find he was running dangerously low._

_His task today became clear. Fill the buckets in the shack, and clean himself as best he could. He found the scroll Davos had left, unrolling it on the rickety tabletop and tracing the path to the nearest fresh water source he could find, a pool that looked to be perhaps a mile from his lone little nest in the sand._

_Jon found a pole, forgoing his sling yet again, exchanging it for a small burlap sack he could throw around his neck that held a change of clothes and a bar of sharp-smelling soap. He threaded two buckets apiece on each side of the pole, then propped it across his shoulders, tucking the map into his pack at the last second before ducking out of the shack and setting out._

_Half a mile in he was sweating profusely, long curly locks escaping the leather that kept it away from his face and sticking to his forehead as he labored, shoulder twinging even as he wound his arms around the pole for support._

_The tropical undergrowth grew thicker, but there was a narrow, dirt path that, sure enough, led into a fairly dense jungle. He looked around curiously, the deeper in he ventured, new sights greeting him with every step. Riotously colored birds cawed and flapped in the tree canopy above, the green broken up here and there by odd-looking fruits he’d never seen before._

_If there was room, and if he had the energy, he would forage a bit before he went back, he thought, even as his strength began to wane._

_But it was reborn, and redoubled, when he heard a telltale splash, and when he finally broke through to a clearing in the trees he wanted to weep with the sight before him._

_It wasn’t just a freshwater pool, there was a small waterfall as well, and he rid himself of his burdens immediately to clamber to the edge, uncaring about the risk for potential sickness as he cupped his hands in the clear water and slurped several mouthfuls._

_Surely it was fed by some river further inland, that lucky for him extended just barely onto this little fingerling outcropping he was currently dwelling on, but it didn’t strike him as particularly urgent to wonder at Lyseni topography, not when the cool, crystalline waters before him promised sweet relief from the sticky grit that coated his skin._

_With one brief, furtive look around, finding the surrounding jungle blessedly quiet, he pulled off his loose linen tunic, taking care with his injured shoulder under he’d worked the material free, unlacing his trousers and toeing off his boots in much quicker fashion._

_Jon walked into the water, feeling cleaner the minute the water hit his skin, moving deeper until he was fully submerged. He couldn’t swim, not yet, muscles still mending on his left side, but he-side stroked his way back closer to shore until just his head was above the surface, his feet finding purchase below._

_How long he lingered, he wasn’t sure, but as the sun climbed across the sky he realized he ought to get on with his business, so he waded back to shore, digging in the small sack for his bar of soap, deciding to kill two birds with one stone and use his dirty tunic as a wash rag of sorts. He cleaned himself as best he could, gingerly swiping along his still-tender skin, though it was nowhere near as sore to the touch as it had been the day before._

_His mind flashed on the beautiful stranger, as it had many times since she’d appeared, now, and he wondered whether he would see her again. If he did, he thought with chagrin, he owed her his thanks, though the act of kindness had not necessarily relieved him of his suspicion._

_One act did not mean he could trust her._

_And if he were truly honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to withstand her, if she turned her full attentions on him. He tried to be good, and honorable, and noble, in all things. He always tried his best to be a dutiful son, the sort his father could always be proud of, to learn to be the kind of King that would continue to proudly lead the North._

_But he was still a man, and she was far too beautiful._

_He finished washing his hair, desperate to rid himself of these thoughts, when he heard a voice, one that made his face fall and a heavy sigh escape from his chest._

_It was, Jon fancied, as though he might have drawn her there, just by thinking on her too long. Maybe she was some sort of enchantress as could be found in these lands, and had already bewitched him._

_“So,” came the voice, with far less sweetness than it had held the day prior, “we meet again.”_

_Jon said nothing, dunking his head under the water to rinse the soap away, but when he resurfaced and opened his eyes, there she stood, by the pile of his belongings, eyeing the buckets that he’d brought curiously._

_“So it seems,” he finally said, willing himself to at least attempt polite civility. He owed her that much, he figured. He watched as she shifted a foot at his trousers, lying in a heap, and his abandoned boots, before her eyes returned to him, floating in the water._

_“Haven’t you got anything to say?” She was still wearing a thin, gauzy dress, today’s a light purple that he was sure had a more particular name, and he was silently thankful when she crossed her arms across her chest and stared at him expectantly._

_Just the whisper of her form under that gown was enough to make his mouth dry, unfortunately._

_But he found his voice, quickly enough, doing what he’d thought he must just before her fortuitous appearance. “Thank you. It worked, the ointment you gave me.” He pressed a finger against his still-pink cheek, pressing without the pain that had plagued him before. “See?”_

_That earned him a small, smug smile. “I fear I was unable to ignore your suffering,” she said airily, her chin tipping up as she stared down her nose at him, sniffing at his remembered poor manners. “Though your rudeness might suggest that perhaps you deserved it.” She couldn’t keep up her frown for long, though, and her mouth softened back into a beguiling smile soon enough. “Unlike some, I can manage not to be hostile to strangers, despite their poor manners.”_

_Jon watched her, for several long moments, as she gathered the hem of her dress and settled onto the grassy shoreline, tucking the fabric around her knees and feet and leaning her elbows on the ledge that was made by her limbs. She rested her chin on her forearms, lips curling up as she regarded him. Today her hair was nearly all free and flowing down her back, two skinny silver braids tracing along the crown of her head and away from her face._

_He had wished for company, to be certain, but he found himself wishing she were a fraction less comely. He wasn’t absolutely sure how much of his body she could see from the shore, but he had no plans to embarrass himself in her presence, so in the water he would remain._

_“Are you spying on me?”_

_His question seemed to take her by surprise, her brows climbing up her forehead and her eyes widening. “I was just exploring. I don’t know if you have noticed, but there isn’t really much to do here.” Her face wrinkled in confusion. “Why would I be spying on you?”_

_Jon searched her voice for the slightest hint of deception, but, unable to find any, was reduced to a simple shrug. “People do lots of things that defy explanation.” That answer didn’t seem to satisfy, but she did not push him further. “Why *are* you here, if not to spy on me? Trying to catch me unclothed?”_

_That earned him a grimace, but her cheeks pinked prettily as she looked away, staring down at his heap of clothing. “Of course not,” she hissed out adamantly, but still she looked away. Now it was she who seemed hesitant. “I was just curious, that was all.” When she looked back at him, he could see that same curiosity rebuilding, reforming, in those lovely, breathtaking depths. “May I ask you a question of,” she paused, seemingly searching for the right word, “rather personal nature?”_

_Jon frowned into the water, leery of giving her the option of asking anything of him, but deciding that he could always just refuse to answer, if he so chose. “Alright, then.”_

_“Are you a pirate?”_

_A laugh broke loose before he could stop it. “What?” He shook his head in the negative, palming the bar of soap awkwardly as he realized he was pruning, all over, and he would need to get out of this damned pool soon. “No, I’m not a pirate.”_

_The girl’s eyes narrowed, her stare sharpening. “Then what are you doing down here, hiding out, thinking everyone you come across is some sort of spy?” It was a good question, one he hadn’t spared much thought for. Jon had not anticipated meeting anyone, on this desolate strip of land, and so a false identity did not spring quickly to mind. He ran through a list of possibilities, from brigand, to thief, to runaway, but only one idea seemed to bear out as passable, giving his current living quarters._

_“I’m a smuggler,” Jon said quickly, watching as she raised a lone brow at the declaration._

_The girl considered his words, then bit her lip, regarding him with close scrutiny, what little of him existed above the water line at least. “You seem very young to be a smuggler.”_

_“I’m an apprentice.” It sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears, for surely there was no such thing. But she seemed to believe him, this silver-haired girl who might or might not be sent to kill him, and she let out a little gasp of wonder at his false admission._

_“That must be very exciting. Do you like it? Being an apprentice smuggler?”_

_Gods forgive him, but the lies were coming to him easily now. “It’s fair enough, I guess. I still don’t care much for sailing.” That last bit, he consoled himself, was true enough. He’d spent most of the journey tossing up his lunch and dinner over the side of the vessel, as Davos chortled and patted his back in amusement._

_Those enchanting eyes went wide again, this time in rapturous awe. “Oh, I love sailing. How wonderful that must be, to know you can spend the rest of your days on the open seas.” She seemed so enthralled at the notion that he began to wonder just what she was doing on this lonely end of the island, that she would turn to seeking him out as a means of busying herself. He knew there were no other dwellings in the immediate vicinity, at least none that Davos had marked on his hastily drawn map, and so he thought perhaps she must have come from further inland still._

_He wondered what her life must be like, that she would wish for the swaying, nauseating freedom that he had tasted on the open waters of the Narrow Sea._

_Jon did not address her rhapsodic declaration, instead risking a look down at the now soaked bandages along his shoulder. His stitches were holding, that much he was sure of, but he knew he’d need to redress the wound soon, and he wondered if she would again take offense and think him rude if he asked her to leave._

_“Could you turn around, and face away, please?” She seemed puzzled at his question, for several seconds, but when he looked down at himself, still submerged, then pointedly at his clothes, she seemed to understand, cheeks flushing further as she scrambled to her feet and turned to face the surrounding wall of jungle._

_Jon eyed her cautiously, but to his relief she showed no signs of turning suddenly, no hints that she would attempt to peek at him as he finally splashed his way to the shore and clambered up. It was a very odd feeling, being completely bared with her standing just feet away, but still hidden from her sight, and he allowed himself a few moments to drip onto the grass below before he wrung out his tunic and tried his best to wick the water from his body._

_He pulled out clean, lightweight woven trousers and another loose, white linen tunic, pulling them on as hastily as his sore shoulder would allow._

_Jon realized he’d lost the leather that bound his hair back somewhere in the blue waters of the pool, but there wasn’t much to be done for it now._

_“You can turn around,” he rasped, wondering why his voice had gone so low, suddenly, wondering as well at the way she started before she twisted about, apparently not expecting his sudden nearness._

_The silver-haired girl’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes making a fleeting journey over his body before meeting his gaze again._

_An awkward silence fell, each of them taking the visual measure of each other, before she looked to the buckets discarded to his left. “Have you come to collect water as well? I can help, if you like.”_

_“Why?” The question was out of his mouth reflexively, as he was completely flummoxed about her aim, here. “Why are you here at all? Surely you have better ways to occupy your time, my lady.”_

_Again, her eyes became intoxicating, everything around him falling away as he found himself lost in those blue-green depths, as though he were drowning in the sea. She stared at him, silent, searching for something he could not fathom as she gazed into his eyes._

_Then, she gave him a tiny smile and bent at the knee, picking up a bucket. “I truly do not have better ways to occupy my time. Or any ways at all, really.” She shrugged, picking her way through the low, creeping undergrowth to the waterfall ahead. “Besides, I think you’re interesting.”_

_He wasn’t sure what to do, for a heartbeat’s span. It was unwise, probably, to encourage her company, but his isolation had become nearly unbearable, and despite the potential danger she represented, he found himself starving for another living being about, no matter how briefly. He picked up a bucket as well, making to follow her._

_“What’s your name?”_

_She turned, that filmy purple shift swirling about her bare, lightly tanned calves as she faced him. “Dany,” she said softly, then shifted away, her grip tightening on the bucket. “My name is Dany,” she repeated over her shoulder, and he was helpless but to follow._

_Dany, he repeated in his mind. Yes, he thought, that was fitting. A nice name. A simple name._

_Dany._

_“What’s yours?” He could barely hear her, over the crashing of water, as she lifted the pail under the current, so he leaned closer, cupping his ear as he set his own bucket down. “Your name?”_

_He could not give her his true name. Even if she bore him no ill intent, his father had been clear. None must know who he was, for his own safety. That his true name was Jonnel of House Stark, Crown Prince of the Winter Throne, was a fact he could not disclose, even if he wished to._

_“Jon,” he said. “My name is Jon.”_


	2. The Targaryens of Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reaches Dragonstone, and several introductions are made. Ghost makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhehehehe so NoOrdinaryLines made me an awesome mood board for this but I didn't put it up yet because it's a little spoilery - it'll be up by the next chapter, though, since it'll be clear why certain images are included! Thank you so much for the lovely feedback, I know this isn't the standard story you get on the tag, and I've taken a lot of liberties, but hopefully you'll enjoy where this takes us!

Two days later, Jon was slogging his way through the surf, to the dark sandy shores of Dragonstone.

He’d brought six guards with him, those he trusted most, and Davos, of course, leaving his ship anchored just off the coast. Looking about, he struggled to see evidence of a single soul about, wondering that perhaps they had been meant to disembark elsewhere, when he heard his name, a shout carried on the wind, a familiar Dornish lilt.

“Prince Jon!”

Jon found the source easily enough, several figures scurrying down the long, winding stone stairs that appeared to lead to the Keep. At the head, came a man in black and red armor, Targaryen colors, his famous sword belted around his waist.

Though his trousers were uncomfortably soaked to the knees, Jon began to jog, boots sinking slightly in the wet sand ‘til he met the man on firmer ground.

“Uncle,” Jon said warmly, Arthur Dayne grinning widely as he clasped the Prince’s forearms in his own. Then Arthur shook his head, and pulled Jon in for a back-thumping embrace. He held Jon close for several minutes, and it was not until the Northern man made to pull back that Arthur Dayne straightened. “You are a sight for sore eyes, indeed.”

He couldn’t recall, right away, the last time he’d seen his mother’s brother. More than ten years had passed, he supposed, when he thought on it for a moment. But, as tended to happen when he did chance to see the last of his Dayne blood, he found himself wondering how much of his mother existed in the man’s face and features. Had she looked as he did? It was hard to know. She had died birthing him, and his own father rarely spoke of her.

As a boy, Jon had not understood this reticence. He had struggled endlessly to find scraps of information about the woman who had given life to him, the woman that, it was said, the King in the North had loved beyond all reason, beyond all measure.

Now, he understood. Some things hurt too much; Some names seemed to tear at the throat and slice the lips, in just the barest utterance.

“Ah, just look at you.” He could hear the sentimental sadness in Arthur’s voice, as the man stepped back a pace, his hand steady on Jon’s shoulder as he examined the Prince from head to toe, clad in his traditional Northern black leathers, the Stark direwolf stitched into the chest. “When last I saw you, you were a boy, still. And now? A man grown stands before me.”

Jon ducked his head, lips twisting in a half smile before he met his uncle’s warm stare again. “Time has been kind to you, as well, Uncle. I daresay you look just the same as you did when last we met.” It was true. Perhaps there were some flecks of silver in Arthur Dayne’s short-cropped hair, but he still looked every inch the formidable knight he’d admired as a boy.

There came a loud outcry from behind them, at the water line, and Jon turned to see a second boat being pulled to shore, this one loaded down with a heavy wooden crate, the occupant of that crate clearly displeased at his confinement.

“Another who has grown,” Arthur chuffed, giving Jon’s shoulder a nudge. “Go and see to your wolf, lad. The King shall be down in just a moment to greet you.” With a final clap of his hand, Arthur released the Prince, and Jon picked his way back down the sandy shore to spring Ghost from his unwanted imprisonment.

Though he still felt extraordinarily anxious about all this, uncertain whether this was the right choice, for solely personal reasons, it was a comfort to have Ghost at his side. He watched, amused, as the great wolf shook himself, the animal seeming to glare at the men clustered around the boat. Letting out a loud huff, he loped towards Jon, giving him a small, happy whine and a lick to the cheek.

And then, he was off.

He raced up and down the brown sandy shoreline, causing the men to scatter as he circled and splashed, surely full of pent-up energy after their journey.

Jon heard a laugh, not belonging to his Uncle, and spun to find that Arthur Dayne was no longer alone.

There, before a small phalanx of guards clad in deep black and crimson, was the Dragon King.

The young Prince had tried, as best he could, to prepare himself for this meeting. It was known, of course, that the Targaryens were of Valyrian blood, that they possessed the silver hair and amethyst eyes common to those of their doomed land. And Jon himself knew, intimately, that there were still those lands that had been part of the old Freehold that still possessed those characteristics.

Still, he was taken aback, the air robbed from his chest, for a split second, at the sight of the man’s shining silver hair. He wore it long, much longer than Jon’s own curls, though like Jon’s his hair was bound back from his face.

“Prince Jon,” came a calm, near-melodic voice, as King Rhaegar gave a slight dip of his chin. “I welcome you to Dragonstone.” There was something cautious that lurked on the man’s face, and Jon noticed the sidelong look Arthur threw at the King he served, as though he were worried for the Valyrian. Rhaegar approached, cautiously, his eyes locked on Jon’s face for so long that the Prince grew slightly uncomfortable at the man’s wordless examination.

Finally, he spoke. “It is nice,” Rhaegar said solemnly, a slight tremble in his voice, “to look upon a Northern face again.” When his lips twisted downward, Jon felt a shimmer of commiseration course through him.

Long ago, this man had been his Uncle, as well, not by blood, but by marriage. When Prince Rhaegar had wed the Princess Lyanna Stark, it had been cause for much celebration and rejoicing, from the icy North to these very rocky shores. By all accounts, it had been a love match, as well, which had only made things so much more heartwrenching when Lyanna and the Dragon Prince’s small daughter, Rhaenys, had taken ill and died. That this blow had fallen just after the deaths of Rhaegar’s own mother and father had largely explained the reclusive stance now common for House Targaryen. Dragonstone had shut itself off from the world, just as the North had.

And Jon understood well enough how it wrenched at the gut, to be presented of these reminders, no matter how small, at what had been lost. His eyes were beginning to ache at the sight of the man’s hair, because every time he blinked he could see her, there, sweet Dany standing outside that smuggler’s shack, a hand stretched out to him, beckoning him.

He shook himself, and clasped the man’s forearm. “I am glad to be here, Your Grace.”

Ghost made himself known, just then, shouldering his way between the two men to sniff at the Dragon King with curious huffs of breath, standing as tall as a horse, oblivious to the gasps and cries of the King’s men.

“Peace, lads,” Rhaegar called out, amused. He raised a hand to still their swords, chuckling as Ghost finally backed off to stand next to Jon, his inspection complete. “My word,” he breathed out, taking in the snow-white fur and piercing red eyes of Jon’s direwolf, his own purple eyes full of an almost childlike wonder. “A magnificent beast, and an unexpected surprise. We were not sure if you would bring him.”

Grinning, Jon reached up to scratch at his companion’s neck. “I hope you’ve got pigs, or he shall be sore unhappy.”

Rhaegar let out loud bark of laughter and clapped his hands together, his men straightening to attention. “Pigs we have, Prince Jon, pigs and more.” He gave directions to his guards to see to Jon’s trunks, which Davos was still unloading, and finally gave a true smile. “Let us get you and your party settled in. We shall dine together tonight, a modest feast I fear, but a feast all the same.”

Jon nodded, waiting until Arthur shared a few whispered words with his liege before he motioned for Jon to follow. “C’mon then, nephew, let’s get you sorted.”

\----------

Jon had barely finished his bath, beginning to dress in his large, spacious, stone-walled chambers, when a knock sounded at the door.

Hastily, he laced his breeches, pulling on a tunic as he walked to the door and threw it open. It was Davos, sporting an odd expression as he glanced at Jon deferentially. “Your Grace,” he said, “Ser Arthur and the King are here to speak with you.”

The pair appeared, one dark, one light, each wearing slightly grim expressions, which did not lesson when Jon waved them in silently. They seemed troubled, and it only fed the melancholy mood he’d found himself in all day. Ghost glanced up from his place before the fire, clearly not picking up on the tension in the air as he yawned and settled back down.

“Jon,” Arthur started, his hands fidgeting together as he stood by the carved window, the sunset painting shafts of golden light upon the floor, “there is a matter of some delicacy that we must discuss with you, before we dine this night.”

Jon stared at each of the men in turn, then crossed to the low table against the wall, pouring out a measure of wine for himself before waving a goblet in their direction. Rhaegar nodded but Arthur declined, and Jon poured one more goblet full for the King. Carrying both, he sat at a chair before the fire, handing one to Rhaegar as the other man sat across from him.

“Well, go on then,” Jon finally said brusquely, breaking the silence. “I’m well accustomed to bad news.”

Rhaegar shook his head, eyes glinting in the firelight as he gave Jon a considering stare. “I’m not certain it is bad news, Jon, just a matter you should be aware of before you are presented to my court.” He took a heavy swallow of wine, letting out a short breath before he finally seemed to find the will to speak again. “You should know that my sister has led no pampered existence. She is no maid who wishes to sit and sew and chatter with noble ladies.” The King sounded so despairing that Jon could not help the wave of pity that washed over him, for this woman he was to wed. “She has been sold, and starved, harmed beyond all reason, and yet,” the man said, sounding as though he might well cry, “she remains. She has lived an entire life, in the time since she was stolen from this Keep, and that life has produced certain,” he paused, considering his words,” consequences.”

Jon frowned, taking a sip of his own wine. “What sort of consequences? Beyond the dragons, of course. It is rumored that she hatched dragons from stone eggs. Is that true?” His own curiosity, on this topic, had grown by leaps and bounds, the more whisperings he heard. It was almost enough to eclipse his lingering hesitation regarding his betrothal to her.

It was not Rhaegar who answered, this time, but Arthur. The Dragon King stared into the flames, as his uncle came closer, to stand over Rhaegar’s shoulder. “It’s true, Jon. She most certainly did. She, alone, brought the dragons back.” With a sigh, the man gripped the wooden back of the chair. “But she is more than just the Mother of Dragons you have no doubt heard tell of. She has a child.”

The air rushed out of his lungs, and his grip on his goblet tightened until his knuckles grew white. “A child?” He looked to Rhaegar who still stared into the hearth. “Why did no one inform me of this before?”

That drew the King’s attention, finally, and from the sudden ire in his eyes, Jon realized it had drawn more than that. “Would it have changed your choice, Prince Jonnel?” The man narrowed his eyes, his sudden formality delivered in a distant, cold voice. “I had hoped that you, of all the suitors who might have been matched with my sister, would be sympathetic to the plight of an innocent child who finds themselves absent a parent.”

It was a direct blow, Jon know, and it was deserved. It might have been true that his father’s second wife, Catelyn Tully, did not mistreat him in front of others. But he had certainly borne the brunt of her disdain and distaste, had grown used to her anger at his very existence. No, she did not speak coarsely to him before his father, but at any and every opportunity, she had treated him as though he did not exist. She had borne his father two daughters, and he loved both sisters dearly, but when Queen Catelyn had fallen victim to the same sweeping illness that had ravaged the North and claimed Jon’s own wife of just a year, Jon had not wept for her.

“Aye,” he finally replied, nodding to himself. “I suppose I do.” He scrubbed his free hand down his face, realizing things had grown far more complicated, but his overall decision had not changed. His kingdom needed this alliance with the dragons, and they needed the Northern warriors at their back when the time came to confront the Lannisters. “What’s her name?”

“Naerys,” Rheagar said quietly, a small smile flitting across his face. “She is a good child, Jon Stark. Innocent, sweet. My sister was sold to the child’s father, a Dothraki Khal, some years ago.” He saw a tic in the muscles at Rhaegar’s jaw, felt his own anger stir at the disclosure. Arranged marriages were commonplace enough, but to sell a woman was a great and terrible crime. Slavery had no place in the North and was given no quarter, an executable offense. “A terrible affair, one which you will no doubt hear more of, in your time here, but the girl bears no blame in it.”

Jon drew back, aghast. “No, of course she wouldn’t.” This little girl’s only crime would seem to be what Jon’s was: existing. He ran his tongue across his teeth, swirling the wine in his goblet, thinking hard. “Will she be dining with us this night?”

Rhaegar gave a dip of his head. “She will.”

Jon took a steadying breath. “And does she know I am here? Does she know *why* I am here?”

Arthur gave a low chuckle. “Oh, she most certainly does. I daresay she is looking forward to meeting you.” His uncle’s eyes dipped to the mound of white fur before the fire. “But especially your wolf. She spied him from the window and has been beside herself ever since.”

Jon looked down at Ghost for a beat, knowing the beast was awake and feigning sleep. There was little about Ghost he did not know, nor Ghost of him. “Up you go, you lazy cur,” he ordered, and those red wolf eyes were locked onto his dolefully for seconds before the creature hauled himself up with a groan. Jon stood, as well, dipping his head at both men in turn. “We shouldn’t keep such an audience waiting.”

\----------

The little princess was watching him.

He had been seated at the head table, with a decent display of fanfare and formalities, Rhaegar to his left, and the small girl Naerys on his right. Jon had tried his best to maintain polite niceties, but he was clearly better at hiding his curiosity than the girl.

He chewed a bit of boar, then turned his head slightly, finding startling purple eyes on him again.

She seemed a meek little thing, not saying a word when they had been introduced, averting her eyes when he had insisted she must call him Jon, that even his father did not call him ‘Jonnel’. Naerys had the traditional Targaryen features, but they were blended with the soft innocence that childhood brought; Where Rhaegar was all angles and lines, little Naerys had a little heart-shaped face. Where Rhaegar’s hair hung stick straight, like spun silver, Naerys had soft silver curls that escaped her braids here and there, giving her an air of unruliness that reminded him of Arya.

And, having had two younger sisters, he at least had an inkling of how to speak to the girl now boring holes into the side of his head with intense interest.

She wasn’t eating, he noticed, and so he risked overstepping to lean over, just a tad, and whisper, “Do you not care for your dinner?”

Naerys said nothing, blinking twice at the question before wrinkling her nose and shaking her head slightly. Jon suppressed a laugh, his eyes falling back on his own plate. The food was quite good, though he absolutely detested beets, and there lay a sliced pile of them in a mound on his plate. He pushed them around absently, for a moment, before quickly turning his head to find her staring at him once more.

“Caught you,” he whispered, before she could look away, and her eyes widened with a hint of embarrassment. That was no good. Jon adopted as serious an expression as he could muster. “Can I tell you a secret?”

The little girl seemed to think it over, tapping a finger against her chin as though she were in deep thought. Finally, she nodded.

“I *hate* beets.” He made a gagging noise, very quietly, sticking out his tongue as though disgusted, and that finally earned a tiny laugh. Naerys clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, as though she thought she might be in trouble.

Slowly, she turned back in her seat, the brown-skinned young woman next to her giving her a gentle scolding, no doubt related to her lack of appetite. Jon looked askance to see her take a bite of bread, chewing slowly, her eyes darting around the room, searching for something.

Finally, when they landed on her quarry, she pointed a small finger to just inside the doubled doors, where Ghost sat at attention, as tall on his haunches as most of the King’s guards.

Now came a true smile, and the excitement Rhaegar had spoken of was clear in the girl’s eyes, as she bounced in her chair and twisted to look at Jon again.

“Ver.” She said the word quietly, with assurance, as she pointed at Jon’s wolf, raising her brows expectantly as he sat, mystified.

It wasn’t a word he was familiar with, and he shook his head, confused. “Sorry?”

“Ver,” she said, more emphatically, and now the woman beside her caught on.

“The princess tells you what your wolf is called, in Dothraki tongue.” In a smooth, slightly accented voice, the amber-eyed woman explained, though she seemed hesitant to speak to Jon at all. “I am Missandei,” she finally said, reluctantly. “I care for the Princess and tutor her in languages. Her mother wishes that she know as many as I do.”

Jon sipped at his wine, returning the woman’s stare with growing interest. “And how many is that?”

“Nineteen.” The answer was delivered smoothly enough, as though it were commonplace, but Jon couldn’t fathom trying to keep so many tongues straight in his head.

Surprised, Jon glanced back to Naerys, who nodded in agreement. “Ver,” she repeated, a third time, her grin so wide now he could see she was missing one of her top teeth. She must be in her sixth year, Jon thought, or close to it, for that had been when both Sansa and Arya had begun to lose their milk teeth, and he returned her smile.

“His name is Ghost,” Jon said, speaking to both of them now. “Do you know what he is?”

Flyaway curls brushed against the sleeves of her proper black gown as she leaned her head on her hand, tilting it at him as though that was the silliest question she’d ever heard. “Ver.”

He understood the word now, at least, but she wasn’t quite right. He smiled. “He’s not just any wolf, little Princess. Ghost is a Direwolf, and those are only found in the North.”

The woman beside Naerys leaned forward again, a little less reserved than they had been before. “Forgive Her Grace, Prince Jon. Today she speaks only Dothraki, you see. Tomorrow we shall speak the Common Tongue, so that she may practice, and then the day after, Valyrian perhaps?” Little Naerys seemed excited by the prospect, then let loose with a string of words so rough and fleeting to his ears that he could scarce make them out.

“What did she say?” He looked to Missandei, who smiled slightly.

“She asks if the Prince of the North speaks many languages as well?”

Jon made a show of grimacing, air whistling out between his teeth as he glanced down at the girl, who seemed to be awaiting his answer rather impatiently. “I’m sorry to say, I only speak the Common Tongue,” he said, making sure his voice was overly full of regret. “And if you wish to know the truth, I’m probably not very good at that one.”

That earned another little giggle from the Princess, and even a friendly twist of the lips from Missandei, who then leaned in when Naerys pulled on her shoulder, her eyes growing wide as the girl whispered to her. Clearing her throat delicately, she met Jon’s eyes. “She would like to know if she may meet your wolf?” He almost missed the shake of the woman’s head, probably to indicate the idea was not proper in this moment, but when he saw that burning purple stare again, the pleading inside, he didn’t think he could refuse.

He remembered, barely, that first day, when he had been but a small boy of four, standing to greet the woman his father had brought to their castle, the woman who would be his new mother. She had sniffed in the air, her mouth twisting as though she’d eaten a lemon, the moment she saw him. She had hated him from the start, had been determined to, because he reminded his father too much of the woman the King had lost.

Jon was, perhaps, too brooding, and too melancholy, and in general a miserable heartbroken fucker at least half the time, according to Davos, but he was not wholly without feeling. He understood what might be stealing the little girl’s appetite, knew well because he had been where she was. He wondered, for a beat, whether the girl was as worried over him as he had been over the new Lady Stark.

He determined that he would do better than was done to him.

Jon winked at the girl, and stood. “Ghost,” he called, his voice echoing around the hall, the din of voices and clattering of dishes falling away at the sound. “To me!”

Serving girls leapt out of the wolf’s path, his wide head swinging from side to side as the beast glared at any who got in his way, padding softly up the stairs of the dais they were seated on. He could feel the worried stares at his back, no doubt the Dragon King and his Uncle wondering if his mind had been lost to him.

But the Little Princess stood as well, clapping her hands in excitement, and Jon gently took her shoulders and maneuvered her to stand before him, as Ghost crept closer.

He was near enough that he heard her swift intake of breath, but to the girl’s credit she did not tremble or shrink away. Ghost, when confronting a person full on, could certainly be intimidating, with his razor-sharp fangs and blood red eyes, never mind that he stood near as tall as his master.

She was a brave little thing, this Naerys, and she squared her shoulders, her chin raised, as Ghost lowered his head to stare into her eyes.

It seemed to Jon, as he quickly looked around, that every breath in the room was held, every stare trained solely on the introduction between girl and wolf, but he thought he must be the only one who was certain there was nothing to fear. Ghost wouldn’t harm the girl. He wasn’t friendly, as a rule, save to anyone but Jon and occasionally Sansa and Arya, but he wasn’t a demon either.

For all that the gathering seemed surprised that the wolf did not leap forward and attack, there was an even greater surprise still to come, for then Ghost blinked, slowly, giving a low, pitiful little whine, then laid himself down on all fours, so that his muzzle was even with the girl’s face.

And then, the rotten cur began to lick the girl’s cheek and forehead, even up the tip of her nose, his great pink tongue no doubt dousing little Naerys in a *most* improper coating of slobber.

Missandei stood, then, likely ready to pull the girl back. But Naerys laughed, a tinkling, merry sound, happy and light, and so boisterous that it earned answering chuckles from the adults at the table. Jon was grinning widely by the time the little Princess turned around, glad to see the glimmer of hesitancy, of fear, was gone from her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered, waving him to bend near so she could speak with her hand cupped around her lips. “I would have told you in Dothraki, but they do not say ‘Thank you’, Prince Jon.”

Naerys gave him no chance to answer, to assure her that he wouldn’t make known her lapse in language, because the minute she had finished speaking she turned back to Ghost and threw her small arms as well as she could around the wolf’s neck.

Ghost allowed it, tipping his great head against the girl’s silver curls, and Jon was endlessly glad for it. He didn’t understand it, not fully, for Ghost rarely even allowed Jon’s own kin such close contact, but he thought it might be that his wolf understood what he did: the little girl was likely afraid, and worried, about the stranger who’d come to wed her mother.

And perhaps, like Jon, he wished to assure the girl that neither he nor Jon meant her any harm.

Jon took his seat, watching, along with the rest of the table’s occupants, as small hands came to pat and pet around Ghost’s ears and cheeks, until finally the girl had her fill, and sat herself down as well. Still, though, she just studied the contents of her place, wee white teeth biting at her little rosebud lips as though she couldn’t quite decide whether she hungered or not.

Jon braced an arm on the table and waited for her eyes to find him again. “He’s very big, isn’t he?” He ticked his head towards Ghost, and Naerys nodded adamantly. “Tonight, we are eating his very favorite thing, you know. That’s how he got so big and strong. He loves boar. I think he could eat five whole boars if I let him.” He nodded solemnly when the girl’s eyes grew impossibly large, and she looked over her shoulder to where Ghost’s large body now lay behind their seats.

Then she turned, looked at her plate, and took her fork in hand. In a flash, she was tearing into her food, and Jon fought a laugh as he began to eat again as well. A hand on his forearm halted him, and he glanced to his left to find Rhaegar regarding him with an odd look on his face. Swiftly, though, there came a gentle smile, and an almost imperceptible dip of the Dragon King’s head, and he looked between his niece and the man who would wed his sister. “You are a good lad, Jon Stark,” he said quietly, then turned back to the ongoing discussion further down the table, something about troop placements and ballistae that he could only catch snatches of. There would be time enough to involve himself in such talk another night. Instead, he kept an eye on the little girl beside him, and the wolf at his back, marveling at the tiny sliver of peace he felt, glad he was still capable of a measure of it, no matter how small.

\----------

Dinner had been a good distraction, but once Jon was alone, in his chambers, he found his earlier worries and misgivings had resurfaced. Left to his own devices, as he readied himself for bed, he found himself grieving once more.

Nights were always the hardest.

She always came to him, then, in his sleep. When he dreamt, it was always of Lys, and of Dany, of the love that had consumed him whole.

The worst nights were the ones where he was too late, always too late. If he slumbered to long, he was there again, sixteen and weeping like a babe, cursing that he had not reached her in time, had not tossed aside his own cares to come to her earlier, to steal her away as he had so dearly wished to. Perhaps, then, the flames would not have devoured her, leaving behind only ash and dust and one small, silver ring.

He undressed, down to his smallclothes, too weary from the events of the day to bother with much else, and climbed abed. He wrapped his hand around her ring, and closed his eyes, and let the dreams come.

\----------

_Dany of Lys was a strange girl._

_That much he had concluded within the fortnight he’d spent in this strange land. She looked every bit the sort of highborn, well-bred lady his father might march before him, in search of a suitable wife. There was something regal, about the way she carried herself, down to her very stride, the set of her head._

_And yet..._

_There was something wild in her, something fearless and free that he wished existed in himself. It was as if every day might be her last, and she meant to milk every wonderful moment from it, luring him into adventurous explorations of the surrounding area, daring him to find her as she hid, scrambling up frighteningly high trees to shake fruit loose when he could not follow, as his arm slowly healed._

_One day, she followed him back to Davos’s shack and ordered him to sit, her eyes searching his wounds then taking up his dagger and carefully, painstakingly removing each horsehair stitch._

_He would scar, she said sagely, but he was healing._

_Three days after she’d performed that task, she arrived in the early morning hours with a thick rope looped over her shoulder, and a teasing grin._

_“Let’s have some sport,” she said, and he had no choice but to nod in agreement._

_Dany tied that same rope to a thick limb that hung over the freshwater pool. The pair spent the whole day whooping and swinging themselves into the waters below, laughing and splashing at each other before they stopped to dry themselves on the shore and glut on the piles of fruit they’d rummaged for._

_Jon realized, as he watched her eat, trying his very hardest not to notice the way her wet shift clung to her skin, hiding even less than before as the water had turned the material almost translucent, that he was infatuated with her._

_How could he not be?_

_Everything she was, was everything he wanted, and he knew it wasn’t wise, but he didn’t know how to stop himself from feeling these things._

_He wasn’t sure he wanted to._

_She noticed him watching her, regarding him silently before sticking her tongue out at him. “What are you staring at, smuggler?”_

_Jon shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry.”_

_Dany stayed quiet, staring out at the water, before she responded. “May I ask you a personal question?”_

_Jon knew well enough that she was going to ask anyway, repeatedly, wearing him down until he agreed, so with a sigh, he nodded. “If you like.”_

_“Have you ever kissed a girl before?”_

_He felt his cheeks flush, his eyes snapping to hers in alarm. “I beg your pardon? Why would you want to know that?” Jon began to worry that she might suspect just how much he wanted to kiss her, a need that had taken root in him after only a few days in her presence, that had now grown into a roaring beast inside him that demanded that he just do it, already._

_Dany frowned. “I was just curious. I’ve never kissed anyone before, so I wondered if you knew what it was like.” She pursed her lips at him as he simply sat, mute, processing what she had said. “So, have you?”_

_Lying would be unbecoming, he thought, especially with the way she stared at him so expectantly, genuinely curious. “Barely,” he muttered, fiddling with the fabric of his wet trousers. He’d shed his tunic, but kept the breeches, determined to retain some semblance of modesty._

_“Did you love her? This girl you kissed? Was it very romantic?” He glanced up to see her in a pose she assumed often, knees drawn to her chest, her arms hugged around them, her wet skirts puddled around her. He wondered at the forlorn note in her voice, as she asked her barrage of questions._

_He had only ever kissed Ygritte, in truth, and even then it had been barely more than a peck. “No,” he finally breathed out, and drew his own knees up, his hands clenching and unclenching in the grass below and resting his chin on a kneecap. “I didn’t love her, and it wasn’t very romantic.”_

_“Oh.” She almost looked as if she pitied him, lovely blue-green eyes glinting with a particular sort of sadness. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she took a deep breath, and when her eyes snapped open again the melancholy was gone, replaced with resolve. “You could kiss me, if you wanted.”_

_Jon drew in a sharp breath. Of course, he wanted to kiss her. He thought about it constantly. But he was gripped with a sudden bout of doubt. What if he was terrible at it? He wasn’t really sure if a person could be bad at kissing, but luck had certainly not been on his side, as of late. “I don’t know if you want me to do that,” he finally said, dryly. “The last girl I kissed was the one who did this to me.” He straightened, pointing at his shoulder, a mirthless laugh escaping as her brow creased. “Could be I’m awful at kissing.”_

_Slowly, Dany shook her head, wet strands of silver swirling over her shoulders. “I bet that’s not true.” She nibbled gently at her lower lip, and Jon was seized by the need to draw that plump flesh between his own, to learn what she tasted like. His heart began to pound so loudly in his ears he worried that she could hear it, as she rose to her knees and came closer, until there were only inches separating the bare skin of his arm and the thin, sheer green material of her summer dress. He looked at her warily when she laid a hand on his shoulder. “I fear that when I leave here, I will not be given the choice, to kiss someone because I wish to.” The eyes he found near impossible to resist flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes. “I would like for you to kiss me. I just want to know what it’s like, because I choose to. Not because someone chooses for me.”_

_“You really want me to kiss you?” He was amazed he was able to huff the words out, every muscle twitching, his pulse racing as he started at her lips. “I warned you already, I might be dreadful at it.”_

_Dany smiled, though he could see she was fairly nervous, her shoulders tensely set though she tried to pretend to be unaffected. She shrugged, tipping her head to the side. “I don’t really have anyone to compare you to, so how would I know one way or the other?”_

_Jon took a deep, slow exhale, breath streaming out of his nostrils as he pressed his lips together. The only reason NOT to kiss her, it seemed to him, was the way his stomach made a stupid flip whenever he saw her, the idea that perhaps it was not just infatuation at all. The only reason not to kiss her, as she asked him to, was that it would be harder to leave her._

_He lifted his hand from the ground, slowly, wiping it against the damp fabric of his trousers before he cupped her cheek. “You’re sure?”_

_Dany huffed out an exasperated breath and narrowed her eyes teasingly. “Honestly, Jon, if you ask me again if I really want you to kiss me, I’ll change my mind. Is it such a terrible undertaking?”_

_Jon shook his head, licking at his dry lips. “No.”_

_Satisfied with his compliance, she closed her eyes, her face moving towards his, lips calling him, begging him to press his against them._

_And so, he did._

_He tried to be gentle. Really, desperately tried. He managed it for a few tender moments, letting his lips slide against hers almost delicately, barely brushing and teasing against the silken skin._

_But then, just as he reveled in the gentle touch, she moaned, ever so lightly, and he was done for._

_Jon’s hand tightened against her cheek, and he changed the angle, this time kissing her with more pressure, the tip of his tongue just flicking out to tease against her bottom lip. She moaned again, more loudly, and he became bolder, encouraged, licking against the seam of her lips, his own groan reverberating between them when she opened her mouth to him._

_She tasted like fruit, sweet with a hint of tartness, and something else. There was another taste, now dancing along his taste buds, that had to be just her, and he shifted around to his own knees, taking her face in both hands, deepening the kiss further to chase that secret flavor._

_It was like sunshine on his face, making his whole body feel warm, his blood rushing to parts of him that were even less inclined to behave themselves, as he glanced his tongue against hers. For a moment, he felt as though he’d been set ablaze, desire surging through him at a level he’d never experienced before. He knew he had to stop, before things grew beyond his control._

_Jon drew back, breathless, watching as she panted against his mouth, her eyelids lazily fluttering open._

_For an agonizing moment, she just stared into his eyes, then traced her hand along his arm, laying her fingers against his where he still grasped her face._

_“I think you’re rather good at kissing.”_

_Dany leaned back, and it took all the willpower he had not to pull her into his arms again, to taste her mouth, to feel the press of her barely covered chest against his._

_She threaded her fingers through his, in the space between them, and gave him a shy smile, one he returned, his breath steadying. “That’s a relief,” he jested, and she squeezed his fingers._

_Dany held his hand for the rest of the day, and even after she left, traipsing off down the beach as the sun began to dip and the sky began to darken, he couldn’t wipe the silly smile from his face._

\---------

The following morning, after he pulled on his favorite worn gambeson, and tied back his hair, he was greeted by the smiling face of Ser Davos at the door, who announced that he had a visitor.

He had two, actually, one of the distinctly small variety, and he smiled warmly when he crossed to the threshold to find Naerys and Missandei standing in the hallway. The tutor returned his smile, and eventually Naerys did as well, though she shifted her eyes to her feet for a few moments before meeting his gaze.

“Good morning,” Jon addressed them both, nodding to each. “How do you fare today, my ladies?”

Missandei’s amber eyes were focused on him, but the darting purple gaze of the princess was everywhere, searching each corner of the room, only resting when she spied the enormous lump of fur by the dying embers in his hearth. And as if the wolf sensed the attention, his head swung around, ruby eyes locking with the girl’s.

“Very well, Your Grace. The Princess wished to see your wolf, if it is not too much trouble. I fear she insisted on such visit before attending to her lessons.” There was a note of aggravation in the woman’s voice, though the fondness there did not wane. Jon nodded thoughtfully, staring between girl and wolf for several moments.

Finally, he gestured the pair inside, grinning at Missandei when the small child squealed with enthusiasm and ran to Ghost’s side, not even hesitating before flinging herself down on the stone floor beside the beast and threading her small hands through his fur.

Ghost obliged her sweet affection with several licks to the girl’s cheek, though Jon suspected there was a hint of resignation to the heavy sigh the wolf let out as his eyes bounced to Jon’s, over the girl’s silver capped head.

As the girl hugged the wolf tightly, her eyes closed in something that looked like bliss, Jon spared another glance at Missandei. “Has she been giving you some trouble this morning?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, lips twitching at the corners as she considered the scene before her. “She is a good girl, very obedient, very sweet. However, I fear she is quite taken with your wolf, Prince Jon, and I did not believe she would be able to focus on her studies until she saw him again. She has something of an,” here the woman paused, deliberately, “affinity for wild creatures, you might say.”

Jon thought on this for several beats, realizing that must be certainly true. If this girl’s mother had truly hatched dragons, somewhere across the Narrow Sea, then he could understand her utter lack of fear when faced with his direwolf. Ghost would seem little more threatening that a common hunting hound, in that framework.

And, as he watched Ghost lay back and allow the girl to scratch at his wide chest, it seemed to him the wolf was rather taken with the little girl as well.

He had an idea.

He walked across to the odd pair, and both girl and wolf turned to look at him as he knelt beside the Princess, the scarlet silk skirts of her rather simple dress no doubt getting soiled in every moment spent on the floor.

“Do you know, Princess, I fear Ghost is feeling rather frightened, being in such a new place, full of strangers. I am meant to be in the training yards this morning with Ser Arthur, so I wonder,” he drawled, as though she might refuse, “do you think he might accompany you to your lessons today?”

Little Naerys looked so excited at the prospect, her eyes widening and a happy gasp escaping, that it was difficult to hold back a chuckle as she nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes,” she said, “he may come with me.” The wee girl was almost vibrating with glee at the notion, her hand stretching up to reach as far up Ghost’s shoulder as she could, though at his full height the animal towered over the Princess.

Jon looked to Ghost, who was watching him intently. “You are to behave yourself, lad. Understood?”

Ghost chuffed, as though Jon was aggravating him with the implication that he *wouldn’t* behave, while Naerys giggled at the sight of the wolf’s tongue lolling out.

When he turned back to Missandei, she looked somewhat unsure as to the sudden arrangement, but Jon did he best to reassure her. “He’ll be fine. He knows well how to comport himself when indoors. And, if he becomes too stir-crazy, give him a honeycake or two. Puts him right to sleep.” Though she still seemed unsure, the woman nodded, and together they watched as Naerys led Jon’s direwolf to the door of his chambers.

Suddenly, as though she remembered herself, the little girl turned, her braided silver plaits glinting in the morning light that filtered in, and gave Jon a deep curtsy. “I shall take good care of him.” She was so grave, for such a small thing, every word heavy with promise.

For the life of him, Jon was flummoxed as to why this seemed so important. All he knew for certain was that he had walked in the little girl’s shoes, and he would not, *could not* allow her to suffer as he had, though they were practically strangers, still.

He would marry her mother, in the coming months, and he could think of no worse outcome than this small child’s misery at the prospect.

Somewhere, in the corners of his mind that had dwelt on other, more hurtful things, it was a welcome distraction, trying to make sure that even if the girl’s mother was less than enthused about their match, at least Naerys might not suffer for the marriage.

Jon nodded and gave a stiff, formal bow, as though they were addressing each other at court. “You have my thanks, Princess.” He looked to Missandei, who was watching them silently, her expression stoic and unreadable, though he thought he spied a glimmer of amusement in her golden eyes. “I’ll be in the training yards with my Uncle, should the scoundrel try to cause trouble.”

Ghost turned, at the door, and Jon could’ve sworn the beast glared at him. He laughed, and gave a wave of his hand. “Off with you, then,” he said, watching as the trio left, still smiling as he reached for his sword belt. Perhaps, despite the wispy remnants of his dream that still clung to him, today would be a good day.

\----------

By the moon’s end, Jon found himself settling into a pattern on Dragonstone, and there was something decidedly comforting about it.

In the mornings, Arthur would come, and he and Davos would dine with his Uncle, sharing stories of the years between them that had been missed.

Sometimes, Arthur would speak of Ashara, Jon’s mother, and Jon was content to sit quietly and listen, soaking in every bit of new knowledge like a sponge. It was a balm to his soul, really, to finally hear the answers to questions he’d always wondered about.

Then he and Arthur would go down to the training yards, and their swords would sing that violent song, and with grunts and parries and thrusts Jon would rid himself of the ghosts from the previous night.

He saw the little Princess Naerys once a day, usually, and she was slowly warming to his presence, though each day felt as though he was starting anew.

Jon didn’t mind. He understood.

And thankfully, there was Ghost.

Ghost became the bridge between man and girl, because her excitement when the white-furred beast would lope up and lick at her face was contagious. And with every re-introduction, the little shy lass seemed less meek, less inclined to stare at her feet instead of meeting Jon’s eyes, and he found that gladdened him as well.

He would not have this child afraid of him.

The choice had been made, the die was cast, and it was told to him by Rhaegar himself that in another two moons or so, his betrothed would arrive, her armies in tow. This gave him several nights of ponderance, as when the Dragon King spoke of the forces that the Princess Daenerys Targaryen was escorting across the Narrow Sea, he made it sound as though they were HER armies, not his.

In the evenings, after dining, he would find himself in the Dragon King’s council chamber, just off the throne room, which housed an exquisite carved model of all the kingdoms of Westeros, that the man called his ‘Painted Table’. It had been carved, in intricate detail, by his own ancestor, one of the earlier generations of dragonlords who had settled on this island, named Aegon.

It was on just such a night, at the beginning of his second moon on Dragonstone, that he finally asked the King for answers.

Jon stood before the table, his eyes tracing each hill and valley, Davos standing nearby and doing the same. He took a sip of wine from the goblet in his hand, and looked towards the massive hearth, where Rhaegar Targaryen sat, staring into the flames. He did that, often, and Jon had taken to wondering if the man was seeking some sort of wisdom in the orange glow.

“These armies, that your sister brings,” he began, waiting until the man met his eyes before continuing, “who commands them? “

Rhaegar’s brows raised, and glanced at Arthur, who sat across from him, before answering. “Daenerys does, of course. My own armies, as you know, are encamped at the southern end of the island, readying for war.”

Jon let his finger ring a circle around the representation of Dragonstone on the map. “And their number?”

“Some twenty-thousand,” Rhaegar said smoothly, finally standing and crossing the room, dressed in his customary red and black leathers, the three-headed sigil of his House stitched upon his chest. “The Golden Company is well equipped for this campaign, I assure you.”

Jon nodded, his eyes straying to the North. “We command thirty-thousand at current count. Father’s last raven said he was preparing to dispatch them, awaiting our word.” He examined the other Kingdoms in turn, noting the stone Lion figures currently situated in the Reach and the Stormlands, as well as the Westerlands. “Though I assume we will not make our push until your sister returns.”

Rhaegar picked up a lion figure, turning it over in his hands. “Indeed. For it is reported that the Lannisters now command forces numbering greater than one hundred thousand, if my scouts are to be believed. Though,” he sighed, “not all fight because they believe in the Lannister cause.” He set the figure back down, exchanging it for a dragon, instead, and held it aloft for Jon’s perusal. “But my sister brings some seventy-five thousand of her own, Dothraki horselords and Unsullied warriors who ought to even our odds up, a fair bit.”

Jon let out a low whistle. “I should think so.” It was said that to engage a Dothraki in an open field was to welcome certain death, their ruthless fighting style and mastery of the mounts something of a legend, even in Westeros. He had only the barest understanding of the Unsullied forces the man spoke of, save that they were students of the ancient Ghiscari fighting style, but there was something else he thought true that made him scowl. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but,” he paused, trying to find the least offensive way to ask his question, “are the Unsullied not a slave army? I cannot say I approve of such.” Rhaegar gave him a searching look, frowning himself, as he set the heavy stone dragon down on the table, and clasped his hands together before him.

“The Unsullied who fight for my sister fight as free men, Prince Jon. She set them free, you see, and killed the masters who wished to continue such traditions. She gave them a choice. They chose her.” That eased his worry, in part, but it still did not explain just how one Princess had managed such a feat. Nor why the famed khalasars of the Dothraki would answer to her.

“How did she manage that?” When Rhaegar raised a brow and let out a small laugh, Jon stood straighter, staring the man down across the table. “Forgive me, but no matter how formidable, it beggars belief that one person, man or woman, would bring such forces under her command, without a means to do so.”

Now, Rhaegar smiled widely. From the fireplace, his uncle let out a sharp bark of laughter. Jon looked over to peer at Davos, who just shrugged, intrigued, and came to stand beside Jon.

“Why, with her dragons, of course.” The silver-haired man spoke so matter-of-factly that Jon was slightly embarrassed, though it was easy to understand why he’d forgotten about the rumors. He had seen no trace of such mythic beasts, in his time here, and had started to think perhaps they were merely that, just rumors, meant to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies.

Jon scratched at his bearded jaw, pondering the King’s words. “And these dragons, do they travel with your sister then? For I have seen no sign of them at all.”

Rhaegar clucked his tongue. “No,” he said dryly, “I don’t imagine you have.” He paced over to the open stone windows, the room exposed to the elements there, and stared out into the night. “The greatest of the three, the one my sister calls Balerion, travels with her.” He turned slightly, to gauge Jon’s reaction. “But the other two are here. For there are three Targaryens left, Jon Stark, and three Targaryens to ride them.” Another laugh huffed out when he saw Jon’s mouth fall open, the implication clear: Rhaegar and Little Naerys had dragons of their own.

“Would you like to see them?”

Jon nodded adamantly, immediately, at the King’s inquiry. Rhaegar turned slowly back to the night sky beyond the stone walls, his voice pensive when he spoke again. “Tomorrow, Prince Jon, I will show you how this war will be won. Tomorrow, I will show you the dragons, and you will know.”

The torches on the wall guttered, and the fire crackled and snapped, the only accompaniment to the heavy silence that claimed the room, following Rhaegar’s declaration.

“Aye,” Jon finally said, low and rough. “I look forward to it.”

Inside, there came a thrill, a shiver of excitement that worked down his spine.

Dragons. Real dragons.

He took his leave, Davos in tow, the men exchanging disbelieving looks as they made their way back to their quarters.

“What do you suppose we’ve gotten ourselves into, Jon?” There was a hint of fear in the smuggler’s voice, as Jon pushed open the door to his quarters, and the Prince leaned on the wood. He mulled over the question, and gave Davos the most reassuring smile he could manage, hope swelling impossibly inside him.

“A way to win, Ser Davos.” Jon tapped the wood decisively with his palm, nodding to himself. “A way to win.”

That night, blessedly, he dreamt only of the tales of his boyhood, of dragons and those who rode them, bringing fire and death to their enemies, those dragonlords of old who ruled the skies.


	3. The Secrets We Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets the dragons, and learns a secret or two, but still the ghosts of the past haunt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I'm so glad you guys and gals are enjoying this! The more we delve into Jon's memories, the more things should be revealed, but your lingering questions will be answered when Dany arrives, and the aftermath of what that brings! Enjoy! (There's even smut in this chapter, it's a quarantine celebration bitches!)
> 
> This is probably also a good time to remind everyone that this is marked AU and Canon Divergent for lots of very good reasons. Things didn't happen in this story like they did in canon. Things will happen in this story that would never in a million years occur in canon, in fact. I take a lot of liberties because hey, it's fun for me :)
> 
> But if that's not something you enjoy I encourage you to go read one of the other wonderful stories on the tag instead. You ain't gonna like this, chief.
> 
> PS - thanks to Fireandice for pointing out that I left in the Valyrian word for wolf instead of the Dothraki. When I first wrote this I intended to have Naerys speak Valyrian that first meeting and then apparently changed my mind and forgot to fix that. Not to worry I'm sure there's LOTS more booboos hehehe.

  
The next morning, Jon was up with the sun, more invigorated than he had been in a very long time. He wolfed down an informal breakfast with Davos in his chambers, donning his leathers and waffling between wearing his heavier armor or doing without.

He wasn’t exactly sure what one should wear, when introduced to dragons.

His mind raced with curious questions. How large were they, exactly? Were they wild and untamed, barely brought to heel by their masters? Or was it, between the Targaryens and their dragons, as it was between he and Ghost? For with his wolf, there was a convergence of souls, an area where man and beast coexisted, their minds shared, their fates helplessly intertwined.

Jon decided to put on his gorget, on the off chance it might afford him a measure of protection, when there came an exceedingly quiet knock at the door.

Ghost was already at the barrier, pacing and swishing his tail impatiently, until Jon pulled it open.

He was greeted with a bright smile, Naerys standing with the Lady Missandei, and a small curtsy.

“Prince Jon!” The girl nearly trembled with excitement, and she thrust her head just across the threshold, to whisper loudly to him, dodging Ghost’s lick to her cheek and taking it on her forehead instead. “Are you ready to see them?”

She was wearing black, just as he, though it was only Jon who tended to do so as a matter of practical choice. Many battles had taught him it was best for hiding blood, both his enemies, and his own, but this little girl was a Targaryen. She was even outfitted in her own leathers, comically at odds on the whole, this little princess dressed as a tiny warrior. Although, Jon mused, as he nodded agreeably, he supposed it was rather easier to ride a dragon without bothersome skirts in the way.

To his surprise, the girl slid her small, warm hand into his much larger one, and grasped it firmly. “C’mon, Ghost,” she called out, waiting until the white direwolf took his place beside her, and began to pull Jon along in her wake.

Jon gave Missandei a small wave with his free hand, as she hurried to catch up, the Princess blazing a speedy path through the Keep. When she looked back briefly to reward him with another wide grin, he chuckled, amused by her enthusiasm.

“I do hope you are speaking the common tongue today, Princess, or I fear I shall be rather lost.”

There was a childish charm to the way the girl now smiled freely in his presence, the gap of her missing tooth calling back memories of Sansa and Arya at her age, and in the face of the girl’s growing ease in his presence he had found a level of acceptance in this odd new position he’d found himself in.

Out they went, clear of the dark, stony Keep, down the endless carved stairways, until they had reached the shore. Jon twisted to see Davos and Missandei trailing a bit behind them, conversing quietly with each other. He had no doubt that the old man had managed to sweet talk even the stoic tutor, as Davos had an easy way about him, with everyone, getting carried away often with his tales of his time at sea.

A hand squeezed his, and his focus returned to the girl who now hauled him across the sand, along a rocky outcropping and around, until they came to a place Jon had no seen before, in his explorations of the island.

It was a cave, he saw, a wide hole gouged into the cliff, and at its entrance, torches in hand, stood King Rhaegar and Ser Arthur. The two men appeared engaged in a serious discussion of their own, but both broke into glad smiles when they saw Naerys dragging him along, Ghost now ahead and sniffing intensely along the path they followed.

Jon wondered if he could smell them.

The dragons.

“Good morning,” Rhaegar called, and Jon glanced around out of habit, surprised to see no guards in attendance. His own remained at the Keep; this occasion seemed one that was best suited to privacy.

“Uncle!” Naerys released Jon, running to where Rhaegar waited and wrapping her skinny arms around the Dragon King’s waist, twisting away and laughing when the usually somber man chuckled and ruffled a hand across the tight silver braids that wound around the girl’s head.

Rhaegar knelt. “I see someone is very excited today.” He was trying to sound solemn, Jon could tell, but he was fighting a smile as he glanced up to Jon and Ghost. “Do you suppose they shall be frightened, by what they see inside, Princess?”

Jon couldn’t deny that there was a decided sense of trepidation within him. Dragons were creatures of myth, of legend, and while the same might be said about Ghost, it was well beyond his wolf to lay waste to a Keep with one fiery breath.

One wrong move, he’d thought the night prior, and he might find himself a pile of ash.

Naerys turned to Jon, her lips pursed and forehead wrinkled as she stared at him, the deep purple of her eyes arresting in the morning sun. Finally, she shook her head to the negative. “No, I think Prince Jon is brave enough to see.”

Rheagar let a laugh escape, one his Uncle echoed. “And what of the Prince’s wolf? Shall we leave him to wait for us? He might be very frightened, you know.”

Naerys almost seemed offended, which amused Jon greatly, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning. “Uncle!” She was positively aghast, stepping to where Ghost stood panting and thrusting a hand into the fur at the wolf’s side. “Ghost is very, very brave. He wants to see.”

The King’s silver head tipped to the side, considering. “How do you know that, sweetling?”

“He told me.” She said it so matter-of-factly that Jon began to wonder, wildly, whether it might be true. Since the first day the Princess had taken the wolf to her lessons, she spent time every day with the beast, and it had not escaped his notice that much of it was occupied with the girl whispering in the wolf’s ear, carrying on hushed, pretend conversations, as though Ghost was her dearest friend and keeper of all her secrets.

It had warmed something in his heart, at the time, that they’d taken to each other so swiftly, but he knew enough about the relationship he shared with his wolf that it stood to reason these Targaryens shared something similar with their own creatures. Jon was a warg, after all, his old, cold blood allowing his soul to be shared with his wolf. Surely, the fire-blooded Valyrians were much the same.

“Is that right, Ghost? You want to come inside?” At Jon’s question the wolf whined, shifting his feet in the sand and looking to the cave entrance, as though he couldn’t quite fathom what all these two-legged fools were standing about for, when there were dragons to be seen.

He sighed and held his hands up, bemused, as he looked to Arthur and Rhaegar. “It seems the Princess is right. I believe Ghost would like to get on with our business.”

Naerys nodded decisively. “He does. He wants to see Silverwing.” She took a step closer to Jon. “That’s my dragon, Prince Jon,” she whispered loudly, cupping her hand to her mouth, though everyone could hear. “Don’t be afraid, she won’t harm you, or Ghost.”

Jon grimaced slightly, breath hissing through his teeth. “Well, Princess, we must count on you to protect us, mustn’t we?”

It came again, that charming smile, that reached the girl’s eyes as she took his hand firmly in her own. “I hope you like them,” she said, nodding, and looked to Rhaegar expectantly.

“It is decided, then.” Rhaegar’s warm declaration was decisive, and he shared a look with Arthur before addressing Davos. “Ser Davos, I fear I must ask that you await our return. There are some secrets I would not reveal to you just yet, if you please.”

Davos dipped his chin, courteously, though he still looked to Jon for his assent. Jon gave a firm nod, an assurance that he agreed, and the man let out a sigh of relief. “With respect, Your Grace,” he replied, stroking his grizzled chin, “I think I shall keep a safe distance away from anything that breaths fire, for my health.”

“I will keep him company, Your Grace, if it pleases you.” Missandei’s offer was well received, as Rhaegar gestured for Jon to step into the cave.

“Many thanks, Missandei. We shall return shortly and,” the man said with a surprisingly wicked grin, “hopefully intact.”

Jon swallowed, and let the Princess pull him once more, into the cave, into the unknown.

\-----------

Rhaegar and Arthur led the way, down a narrow hollow that had been carved through the stone, the path lined with guttering torches. Soon enough, as they wound their way along, a sound greeted Jon’s ears, one that ricocheted and echoed, but one that was very familiar.

It was the sound of a hammer striking an anvil.

The stone corridor gave way, suddenly, to a great, cavernous room, one that seemed to glow with the light of a thousand flames.

Jon drew in a breath, stumbling to a halt, amazement sweeping through him.

“Welcome to the forges, Prince Jon.” He was only able to hear the Dragon King’s quiet words because of the man’s close proximity, as they surely would have been lost to the din of not one hammer, but several. At least ten smiths, that he could see, at least, pound away, metal glowing red and hot under their implements.

“Is that,” his voice trailed off as he realized exactly what they were worked, even as the activity tapered off and finally stopped, with the notice of their arrival.

“Valyrian steel,” Arthur supplied helpfully, his eyes dancing with mirth as he took in the way Jon’s mouth fell open. “The only Valyrian steel still forged in the world, in fact.”

The cacophony of sound resumed as Rhaegar left Jon’s uncle to explain, the King crossing to speak to a man nearby who was about to return to working the bellows, stoking the forge fire, clearly preparing to work more molten steel. He was shocked anew when, after a quick conversation, Rhaegar nodded and approached the liquid steel, drawing a dagger from his side and pricking his own finger, methodically watching as several drops of red blood fell into the metal.

“That’s the secret,” Arthur whispered. “It is their own blood that is required, for such mighty steel. The blood of the dragon, you see.”

Jon didn’t know what to say, his mind and sword hand flying to Longclaw, his own Valyrian steel, strapped at his waist. It had been a gift from one of his father’s banners, Lord Mormont, on Jon’s fifteenth name day. None knew the lost secrets to forging such blades, save the Targaryens, and their domination of the market had led to a tidy sum of riches for the last Valyrians who had inhabited this island after the Doom of Valyria had claimed their kinsman.

He watched, speechless, as Rhaegar did the same, until he had visited all four forges that lined the chipped, dark, glassy walls of the cavern. Looking up, he realized he couldn’t see the ceiling of this space, wondered how it could be that it had come about at all. Perhaps it was those first Targaryens who had come, in search of safety, who had carved this space.

So entranced he was, by his own musings, that he did not notice when Rhaegar returned, not looking back down until Naerys gave his hand a solid squeeze.

“It goes without saying, Prince Jon, that you will not speak of what you have seen. I show you this, because you will be family, soon enough. And I believe, as does your Uncle, that I may place my trust in you.” There was a ribbon of iron in the King’s normally dulcet tone, more command than question, but Jon could not find any offense within him at the man’s words.

“Of course,” he promised, with a heavy exhale.

Rhaegar clapped a strong hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Good. Come with me.”

He walked briskly away, crossing the tightly packed dirt floor, and Naerys and Jon hurried to keep up. Along one wall stood several armor stands, and on those stands stood items that truly took Jon’s breath away. There were suits of armor, upon those stands, glittering in the torchlight, and his heart stammered and stuttered when he spied the one nearest. The other suits, he saw, held gleaming sigils of House Targaryen stamped upon the breastplate, the circling three heads of the dragon. But one held a wolf, his sigil, of *his* house.

“I have had this made for you, Prince Jon. For we mean to make a great and mighty war, and no goodbrother of mine will ride into battle without the finest armor that can be provided.” He clicked his teeth together and gave an amused shrug. “I also swore to your father that you would be well-protected. And between Eddard and I, there can be no false promises.”

He fought the urge to push back, to beg off from such a priceless gift; He had never seen Valyrian armor, in person, though it was widely coveted across Westeros. And now, to be presented with a complete set…it stole the breath from his chest.

Rhaegar seemed to sense such, and gave him a small, understanding smile. “Consider it a wedding gift, on behalf of House Targaryen, will you?”

Jon gulped down his reticence, and nodded. “Aye, Your Grace. I fear I am simply overwhelmed at your generosity.”

The King just smiled more widely, another silent, communicating glance shared with Arthur as he locked his hands together before him. “Let us go further, before you bestow your thanks. I wonder if you will find our greatest weapons as,” he paused, eyes flitting away briefly before meeting his again, “agreeable.”

There came another tremble of fear, twisting in his gut, but then little Naerys, who had held her tongue since they’d entered the cavern, squeezed her wee fingers against his, giving him a reassuring twitch of her lips. “He will think they are wonderful, won’t you, Prince Jon?” Jon looked to Ghost, who stood just over the girl’s shoulder, resigned to whatever came next.

“Let us go and see then,” he said, and the party continued onward, through a narrow archway set in the back of the cavern.

It seemed to Jon as though they walked forever, this path less trod, the space here much smaller, barely wide enough for one man to walk through alone. They formed a line, with Rhaegar at the head, then Arthur; Naerys still clutched at his hand, her excitement rather contagious, and at his back, Ghost loped behind, bringing up the end. Sometimes he thought they travelled upward, other down into the bowels of the very island itself, but eventually, he began to see their darkened path growing brighter.

They came upon another cavern, this one even brighter, but no torches hung on these walls. There was no roof at all, over this chamber, if it could even be called that. It was a giant, concentric room, and sunlight streamed in over their heads, light and full, leaving no dark, hidden spaces.

It was amazing enough, on its own, because it seemed to Jon as though the Gods must have reached down and carved away this huge pit in the cliffs of Dragonstone. There were no exits, that he saw, save the place in the rock they had emerged from.

But it was the sight that greeted them in the center of the place that threatened to unmoor him from reality completely.

Dragons.

He was shaken, down to his very bones, the girl holding on to him, pulling with all her might until eventually his heels dug in, and he stood, numb, gaping in wonder and awe at the presence of such fantastic beasts.

They were massive.

He could be forgiven, in his addled state, for thinking them as big as mountains themselves. And they were, it seemed. Great, scaly mountains of steaming hide, with heads as big as carriage carts and jaws so great that he fancied he might be able to walk into in great, open mouth fully upright and still have room.

They were daunting, these beasts.

They were terrifying.

They were, without a doubt, absolutely magnificent.

The pair of them were quite different, apart from their size. On his right sat an emerald colored creature, with great bronze spikes and frills, and amber eyes that seemed to immediately focus on Jon and take the measure of him. Intelligent, he thought. These were no mindless beasts. He felt as though he were being examined, his blood and flesh, his heart and soul, and the green dragon did not falter in his stare, even as Rhaegar crossed and stroked a loving hand against the dragon’s snout.

“This is Vermithor.” Finally, the dragon’s attention was stolen, its eyes closing in bliss as his master scratched along the underside of his jaw. It was staggering, how very small the King looked next to his dragon, for King Rhaegar was a tall, slender man indeed, near a head taller than Jon himself, but now he looked dwarfish in comparison. “He is mine, and I am his. That is the way of these things, you understand?”

Jon felt Ghost nudge at his side, turned slightly to find the beast pressing himself closely against Jon’s shoulder and legs. Not afraid, Jon realized, but certainly wary. Oh, yes, he understood well enough. That was the nature of things, truly, between man and beast. A bond; not of ownership, but of companionship, of two souls joined in singular purpose.

“Aye,” he said, his voice rasping, and he cleared his throat. “I do understand.”

Rhaegar spoke to his dragon, in words Jon did not understand, but he had heard the Princess spend entire days speaking this tongue. He recognized Valyrian when he heard it, now. Naerys tugged at his hand, releasing it when she saw she had his attention. “He tells Vermithor that you are a friend.”

Jon released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his eyes widening with relief. “That’s good to hear, I should hate to think on being considered his enemy.”

Naerys shook her head and giggled, as though he were being awfully ridiculous, and began to walk away. She turned her head, after a few steps, and waved a hand to him, gesturing for him to follow. “Silverwing wants to meet you, Prince Jon. I have been telling her tales of you, and your wolf. She is most happy to make your acquaintance.” She struggled slightly, as she did with larger words, but she was learning, and it made him smile, so he obeyed.

The other dragon, this Silverwing that Naerys spoke of, was true to her name. She was, in truth, a gorgeous beast, her scales gleaming like coins as the sun danced on the surface. He might’ve been convinced she had been smithed from the metal itself, but then the dragon’s great head turned, golden eyes trained on the little child who approached fearlessly, the Prince and wolf in tow. There came a soft, soothing purr, from deep in the dragon’s chest, and the Princess lay her head on the stretch of hide just behind the dragon’s enormous, steaming nostril. Hands patted upon scales, in greeting, and again the girl laughed, merrily.

“Come close,” the girl entreated, and Jon swallowed heavily, focusing on placing one boot in front of the other, not daring to meet the dragon’s eyes until he stood beside her mistress.

Again, that sensation swept over him, of being searched, being *seen*. It was not palpable, really; it was more like the invisible winds that swept in from the sea, that eddied and flowed though they could not be detected by the eye. He felt it, all the same, and he prayed he passed inspection.

Naerys set about much the same as Rhaegar had, speaking Valyrian to the dragon, though that heavy stare did not stray from Jon, but it seemed eventually, as though dragon and girl reached an accord. A heavy gust of hot air suddenly erupted from that great nostril, strong enough to blow him back a step, to sweep against Ghost’s fur in a mighty wave.

Several deep inhalations came, as though the dragon were scenting him, and then, happily, Naerys stepped to his side and took his left hand. “She will let you touch her now.”

Jon felt every muscle seize, panic washing over him as his heart raced at the notion. “I do not think—”

“Just here,” the girl said firmly, as though he had not spoken at all, then placed his hand against the dragon’s snout, holding it there with her own.

He was frozen in place, incapable of moving now even if he wished it, as his hand touched the rough, hot scales of the silver dragon. His heart was pounding in his ears as the seconds ticked by, and he found he could look nowhere but into the one amber eye he could still see, in this position. Lungs full to bursting, he finally felt the air escape him in a loud, whistling rush of air, chest heaving as he stood eye to eye with the truest, rawest power he’d ever encountered in all his years.

This was how wars were won, truly. It would almost be too easy, now that he knew the truth of them, to send these dragons now and destroy the Lannisters completely, to remove that bloodline from the annals of history altogether.

And he was touching one.

A small voice piped up from beside him. “She likes you,” Naerys trilled happily.

Jon had a healthy measure of doubt that the dragon cared much about him one way or another, but he humored the girl. “How do you know?”

She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated groan, reminding him so much of Arya in that instant that he was stymied by it. “She told me, of course.” A child’s fancy, perhaps, but he could not discount that the girl was just as tuned to the dragon’s feelings as he was to Ghost’s. And right now, Ghost was feeling cautiously optimistic that they would make it out alive.

Jon grinned down at the girl, retrieving his hand, and stepping back to give a proper, formal bow to the dragon, Ghost sitting handsomely on his haunches at his side. “A pleasure to meet you, Silverwing.”

Naerys clapped her hands and did a silly, wiggling dance, skipping from one foot to another in glee. “Now we’re all very dear friends,” she sang out, and Jon found himself glad to agree.

\-----------

Hours later, in the darkness of his chambers, Ghost snoring beside his chair, Jon stared into the flames. There was potential, here, real potential. The ring around his neck lay heavy, this night, pulling him down though his imagination ran wild with possibilities.

These dragons would make them formidable, almost unstoppable.

This war would be won, of that he was now certain.

But what would come next?

He was beginning to think there was more at play here, than simply the elimination of the threat that seemed poised to pull all the Kingdoms of Westeros into an era of fearful forced rule.

True, their combined men would probably be enough to deal the death blow to the Lannisters, but the warrior in his heart yearned to see a field of fire, to see his enemies brought low and crumbled to dust at the hands of his Targaryen allies.

Including, he thought, gut twisting with nerves, his new wife-to-be.

He wondered about her, moreso tonight than he had before. What sort of woman must she be, to have done the thing she had, withstood the things she had?

No simpering maid, no soft lady, that much Rhaegar had warned him of. Surely, this Daenerys Targaryen would be made of sterner stuff, unbreakable, probably hardened by life, just as he was. Perhaps he would find they were well-suited.

Perhaps, at her side, in her arms, in her bed, he might finally be able to let go.

His hand crept up, as usual, sliding down the silver chain, tucked under his tunic, and pulled the ring free.

Dany’s ring.

There had come a foolish little inkling, in his mind, about this Daenerys Targaryen. He wondered if anyone ever called her Dany. He had allowed himself, here and there, to wonder if the impossible was finally possible.

He wondered if she’d ever been to Lys.

But then he would remember the fire, the smell of charred wood and flesh, the smoking debris he’d waded through, to pull this same ring from the ashes.

It was a fool’s hope, truly.

Dany was dead, and dead she would stay, no matter how similar the names might be.

It didn’t mean they were the same.

He sighed, and fisted his hand around the ring, giving himself over to the hypnotic flickering of the flames, and his remembrances.

\-----------

_Davos came, intermittently, only to take his leave again on some secret errand or another. Jon did not know if the man was still on a mission for his father, the King, or if he was off to smuggle once more. He didn’t really care, inwardly glad when Davos would linger only for a day or two before disappearing again._

_Dany did not come when he was there, by unspoken agreement between the two of them. The moment the ship would appear on the horizon, she would be off, only returning to the beachside hut when the ship was well away from the shore._

_By his fourth month there, he cared little for the reasons._

_He was starved for her._

_She had become an addiction, everything seeming wrong and off-kilter until he saw her again, felt her hand in his, tugging him along on another adventure she’d dreamed up._

_Once, they tried to make a raft, to traverse the tip of the island, but each attempt left them in knee deep water, driftwood logs splitting away and coming undone, collapsing into helpless laughter when one or the other got a face full of seawater as a reward for shoddy craftsmanship._

_It was probably the rum, that’s what Dany said, and Jon knew she was probably right._

_They liked to sit under the swaying palms, listening to the waves crash, her fingers laced through his as naturally as if they had been made to fit there, sharing a bottle amongst themselves and nibbling on fruit._

_On the very best days, they kissed, unplanned and irrationally. He would be in the middle of strapping new burlap to the practice dummy he’d fashioned together, complaining at the shit material, and then she would strike, kissing him so soundly and sweetly that he’d drop what his was doing. His hands would rise to cup her cheeks, or, if he felt particularly daring, her hips._

_Closer and closer they wandered towards more, hands beginning to roam when their tongues would glide and stroke, but they did not dare go further._

_But oh, how Jon ached to. Perhaps he had been terrible at kissing, before, there was no way to know, really. But now, moons of practice had made him an expert, he thought. At least, when it came to kissing Dany. Each moan and gasp he earned was an achievement, his blood pumping for more._

_It was the same for her, he knew. Sometimes, when he would pull back, knowing he must, knowing he was seconds from stripping her thin, gauzy shift off her body, and seeing in the daylight what the shadows barely hid, he could see the hunger in her cerulean eyes._

_That was the color. That’s what Davos had told him, his last visit, when he asked what color the ocean was here. That was the color of Dany’s eyes, so different from the churning gray seas off White Harbor._

_‘Cerulean blue’ had been the answer._

_In her eyes was every desire that stirred Jon’s young soul, the companion of the aching want that tightened his chest like a vise._

_He was not sure how much longer he could hold off. He wondered if she was playing a similar game, if they were both waiting to see who would finally break first, to cross a line that had not been yet crossed._

_He yearned to cross that line with her._

_He hoped, desperately, that he would become as proficient in other acts as he’d become in kissing her. He indulged in daydreams, on the instances she did not visit, of taking her away with him, from whatever circumstances often made her stare off into the distance, sadly. He wanted to sweep her away, take her back to Winterfell, make her his Princess. One day, he would muse wistfully, he would make her his Queen, and always keep her safe._

_He was in love with her, and there was little he could do to change that._

_By his fifth moon there, she crossed the line for both of them._

_She came to him, later than usual, midday, when the sun was already burning a path across the sky. He had given up hope that he would see her that day, resigning himself to sharpening his sword in the shaded interior of the shack, sweat already beading and pooling at his brow and trickling down his back, despite the thin layers he wore._

_The knock came, and he rose quickly to open it, surprised to see her there, on the verge of tears. The sorrow on her face was almost enough to distract from the lovely, delicate dress she wore, a light lavender concoction that hung from her shoulders in thin straps, so sheer he knew if the sun hit the fabric just right he would be able to see right through it. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide and shadowed, heavy with sadness. He hated that sight, more than anything, and he pulled her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her, his face in her hair before he finally spoke. “What’s wrong?” His quiet question was muffled against her hair, but she heard him well enough._

_She pulled away, slowly, silver strands clinging to his face and lips as she sighed and eventually brought her eyes to his. “I am to be married,” she whispered morosely, eyes filling with a fear that frightened him, at the anger it spilled in him, at the way he wanted to rage at it._

_And then he processed the rest of her statement. “Married,” he echoed, his voice breaking on the word. Her face twisted, a tear sliding down her cheek, and before he could think his hand was at her jaw, his thumb catching the drop before it could fall. “I take it this does not please you.”_

_Dany shook her head forcefully. “No. It does not.” Her hands reached for the purple fabric, twisting in the material of her dress, as she struggled to find the right words. “I do not wish this, but I must do it. I have *obligations*,” she spit out, as though the word were distasteful. “And I must do my duty.”_

_Ice settled in the pit of his stomach, in the very core of his heart. This, he understood. He wondered again who she was, who she really was, if Dany of Lys was her true identity. He did not press on this, he never did. How could he, when he kept his own secrets?_

_Jon said nothing, just took her hand and let her to sit upon one of the wooden stools at the small table. He remained quiet as he rummaged for a bottle of rum, finding two small cups in his stash and returning to place one before him, the other before her. Her eyes followed his actions closely, but when he poured a healthy measure for them both and raised his glass, she managed a small smile and raised her own._

_“Fuck duty,” Jon declared forcefully, finally earning a sharp, surprised laugh._

_“Fuck duty,” she repeated, clinking her tumbler against his._

_They finished their drinks in relative silence, but finally he felt the weight of his many questions upon his tongue. “What will you do?” He didn’t want to know the answer, just as equally as he burned for it._

_She rested an elbow on the table, resting her head in her hand as she held his eyes. “What I must,” she whispered. “I fear the choice is not mine to make.”_

_Don’t say it, he urged himself. Don’t tell her what you wish for, for it cannot be. But Jon was a fool in love, and he could not help himself. “You could come away with me,” he said urgently, lowering his voice as though he might be overheard. “Hide here. When Davos comes again, we can stow away, begone from the shores. I can hide you, keep you safe.”_

_She smiled at him sweetly, even as she began to cry. “No one can keep me safe, Jon. No one.” Her free hand slid across the table to catch his, their fingers joining. “But if I could, I would.”_

_He gulped at the admission, his heart swelling. “You would?”_

_Dany peered at him, the dim light of the shack, her hand squeezing his as she finally nodded. “I would.” She stood, before he could react, and came around the table, her hand still joined with his. “Jon,” she whispered, sniffling delicately, nudging his knees apart with her own and coming to stand between his spread legs. She wrapped her arms around his neck, the sweet smell of her skin creeping in and fogging his senses, everything growing hazy as she pushed herself closer still._

_He kept his chin tipped up to keep his eyes locked on hers, a test of his already fading willpower as her chest was level with his head, now. “Jon,” she repeated, her voice growing soft, “can I ask you a personal question?”_

_Jon’s heart began to pound, his mouth going dry, as the pads of her fingers teased at the nape of his neck._

_“Alright,” he whispered, taking a chance and letting his own palms cup her hips, the material of her dress barely able to hide the heat of her skin._

_Leaning in, she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, then drew away, just barely, her own breath quickening. “Have you ever bedded a woman?”_

_He made an embarrassing choking noise, his throat closing as his face surely flushed red. He knew what she was going to ask of him, knew it was what he wanted, but the desperation in her gaze gave him pause. “No,” he answered quietly, frowning. “Why are you asking me this?” If he did this, he knew, it would mean something to him, it would mean everything, and his heart protested at the thought that she might not feel the same._

_Her index finger began to toy with a black curl; he could feel the slight tug, the teasing touch, as he watched her bite her lip. “It’s supposed to hurt, for a woman. If she is untried, I mean.” She seemed unsure, stammering as her eyes darted around the room, trying to look at anything but him. “Do you think that is true?”_

_Jon desperately tried to scrape together what he knew about bedding, though his knowledge was woefully limited to what he’d heard from his father’s men and banners, drunken tales in the Great Hall of Winterfell, and Theon’s overindulgence in the local brothels in Winter Town. That had not been his lot; His father had made sure to drill into him such, that he was a Prince, and his seed was meant for his bride, his Queen, not some common girl at a house of ill repute._

_But Dany was no common girl._

_She was everything._

_He shrugged, his face twisted with apology, nibbling at the inside of his cheek as he fought to keep his eyes glued to hers. “I wish I could tell you, Dany. But all I know is second-hand knowledge. I believe,” he said, hesitantly, “that perhaps it might hurt, at first. But it must get better, else why would people go about it as they do?”_

_She gave a mirthless laugh, eyes cast downward to a spot below his chin, shifting so that her legs rubbed against his inner thighs as she pressed ever closer. “Perhaps.” She let out a huff, and when she raised her head again, the fear he’d seen was gone, replaced only by certainty._

_And hunger._

_“Jon,” she whispered, and shifted again in his grasp, one hand still toying with his loose curls, the other cupping his chin, keeping it tipped up, so that he could not look away. He felt his gut tighten, awareness trickling through him, every nerve flaring to life. “May I ask a favor of you? If you don’t wish to, I understand. But I hope you wish to, as I do.”_

_His cock had deduced what was coming in very short order, his brain struggling to catch up, because surely this must be some rum-soaked dream, brought on by too much salt air and too much sun._

_This was his dream, every night the same, that she would come to him, and they would strip each other bare, and finally indulge in the want they had been circling for what felt like ages. He shouldn’t, he knew that. His father would surely not approve._

_But his father had sent him here, and Davos had left him, and she had found him. And for the first time, since his life had nearly ended, he felt real again, not like some dead man walking._

_It was unwise._

_But he loved her, and he could not tell her no._

_“You want to lay with me,” he said, no question in his voice. She nodded, her own cheeks pinking prettily, and looked away as though she was embarrassed. Impossibly, he wondered if she thought he would deny her, as if he was capable of it. Now it was Jon who had difficulty meeting her eyes, starting to feel rather light-headed as the blood in his body seemed to rush, all at once, to the one area of his body that was clamoring for such delicious contact._

_She captured his head between her hands, serious, determined even when she spoke again. “I cannot change what is to come. There is no choice given me, but,” her face twisted again, as she fought back fresh tears, “in this, I can choose. I want to choose. You.”_

_How could he refuse? How could any man, when presented with such?_

_His own time here was drawing to a close, and he felt the encroaching creep of time more with each passing day. If they were destined to part, and they were, it seemed, he lacked the willpower to send her away._

_“Alright,” he said on an exhale. “If you’re sure.”_

_Dany leaned over him, her hair curtained around them both like waves of moonlight, hiding them from the world when she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, her grip on his face firming. “Thank you,” she whispered as she pulled away, only far enough for her enchanting eyes to search his. A veil of shyness seemed to fall over her, a nervous little laugh trickling out as she let one hand sweep up his cheek to caress his unbound hair. Though he still kept his face as smooth as he could with soap and a sharpened blade, he hadn’t minded his hair much since he’d arrived, and it was far longer and more bothersome than he generally kept it._

_He didn’t mind, in this moment, as she seemed utterly enthralled with it, and he couldn’t deny the pleasure in feeling her nails scrape lightly against his scalp as she ran her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor the sensation as he tried to gather himself, to throttle the overwhelming desire that was coursing through him._

_When she pulled away, he opened his eyes, to find her standing a foot away, her hands flying to the back of her neck, fingers struggling to pull free the tie that held her dress to her body._

_She looked unreal, plucked from his most secret fantasies, her back to the square windows, sunlight setting her aglow as she gave him a tentative smile. He stood, breath a little unsteady, but steps sure as he crossed to stand behind her, tucking a wavy swathe of hair over her shoulder and gently batting her hands away. “I’ll do it,” he said, his lips near the skin of her nape, pleased at the way she shivered._

_He heard her breath catch and release as he untied the knot, the bodice sagging forward and her shoulders now bare as thin lavender straps slid down the smooth, tanned skin of her arms._

_Calm yourself, he thought fervently. Slowly._

_Jon placed his hands on the soft skin of her shoulders, turning her around slowly until she faced him. There came a buzzing in his ears, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, frantically racing as he licked at dry lips. “You’re really sure?”_

_If she had harbored any more hesitancy, about what they were going to engage in, his breathless question seemed to rid her of it, for a saucy smirk grew upon her lips as she tipped her head sideways, curiously. “You ask far too many questions, Jon. If I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t be here. Are *you* sure?”_

_Was he sure? Bloody hells, of course he was. That didn’t stop the wild thrumming of his pulse when he considered that, while he had a general idea of what to do, he was about to venture into lands that were very much unexplored, in practice._

_However, he had several ideas._

_“Aye,” he said, gripping her hips again and pulling her close, as she held the bodice of her dress against her chest and peeked up at him from under sooty lashes. “Though there is the chance I might be absolutely rotten at it.”_

_She gave him a cheeky little smirk, shaking her head slightly, hair trailing across her shoulders, invitation clear in her eyes. “That’s what you said about kissing, and I have to say,” she purred, her arms just brushing against the thin tunic he worse as she pressed closer, “you turned out to be most excellent at that.”_

_Each breath was a puff of sweet heat across his lips, and he could do nothing, then, but give in to the urge to kiss her. Before, unspoken between them, had existed a point at which they might pull back, to gather themselves, to cool the ardor that had built between them._

_But not, that point had ceased to exist, and it was only seconds into that sweet press of his mouth against hers, that he was spearing his tongue between her instantly parted lips, swallowing her moan as his hands began to travel the soft length of her body._

_Her own hands began to wander, as well, her shift falling between them as she raised one to tangle in the hair at his nape, the other finding its way under the hem of his shirt and skirting along his abdomen in a way that made him gasp._

_He drew back, eyes widening with wonder at the skin now revealed, her purple gown now dropped to pool just above her hips, stopped from falling completely only by the press of their bodies. She was beautiful, too beautiful for him to comprehend, really. He knew he ought to do something, to say something, instead of gaping at her uncovered breasts like a damned simpleton. He had tried, had dug deep into the well of propriety that his father and his Maester and even the unkind Lady Stark had tried to drill into him, not to gape when he had been privy to mere glimpses of her chest covered in her usual flimsy, filmy gowns._

_But this, now, was like a feast after weeks in the wilderness, and he could only gape like the green boy he was at the gentle slope of her tits, the curves and the valley between them, torn between taking the tips of her rosy, pebbled nipples between his lips or grasping each in his hands._

_She solved his internal struggle for him, as she took his hands in hers, and placed each atop a breast. Jon finally managed to bring his gaze back to her face, groaning lowly at the contact of her flesh against his palms, while she smiled at him. “You can touch me, Jon.”_

_It was all he needed, apparently, as he tried to keep his touch soft, gentle, not knowing how much pressure would feel good, or would hurt her. His fingers molded to each, her skin unimaginably soft as he traced and committed the feel of her to memory. His thumbs traced the skin between each plump curve, before testing her reaction by circling them around each stiff, pink peak._

_Now, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face, the way her face contorted with pleasure, the way her lips parted, and she mewled like a kitten at his touch, making him far drunker than Davos’s rum stash could ever have managed._

_He dipped his head, his eyes still trained on her face, as he let his lips circle one hard nipple, the husky moan he earned making his own eyes slam shut in pleasure. Her hands came immediately to his head, holding him in place, and he spent glorious minutes learning the shape of her with his tongue, flicking the tip against her skin, glorying in the way she clutched at him and gasped his name as he teased and suckled her tender flesh._

_“Jon,” she finally breathed, after he had switched sides and given her left breast similar treatment as the right, “haven’t you got a bed?”_

_His cock began to throb against the lacing of his breeches in heady agony at her question, the image of splaying her out on that bed and exploring the rest of her threatening to make him spill before he’d even been touched._

_“Aye,” he rasped out, slightly distracted at the way his saliva painted her flesh, straightening and pulling her flush against him, knowing she would be fully aware of how great his desire was when she felt the proof against her stomach. “Just there.” He nodded in the general direction of his narrow bed, sparing at thought for how he might manage to fit both of them on it, dismissing the concern and reasoning that he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Jon let her free only long enough to pull his tunic off, tossing it over his shoulder haphazardly, chuckling when she giggled at his haste._

_“Here,” she said, taking hold of her dress and pulling it over her head, seeming oblivious to the way he stopped breathing completely when she was truly bare to him at last._

_He didn’t know where to look, where to let his eyes settle, because he wanted to see everything, all at once. She was so pleasingly formed, hips flaring out just below a trim waist, the hollow of her navel leading his eyes lower, to the thatch of silver curls that shielded her sex, his fingers itching to test her there, to see if she was as consumed by hunger as he was._

_She handed him her gown, smiling shyly. “Can you place this on the table? I must take care it isn’t ruined.”_

_Jon nodded mutely, shaking it out and laying it on the tabletop, using up what remained of his self-restraint as he obeyed. Then he turned, his eyes devouring her as his hands craved to do, and claimed her lips, trying to ignore the protest of his cock as he kept his touch almost chaste, not yet daring to go farther than savoring the feel of her breasts pressed against his bare chest, his hands just playing about the skin of her waist._

_Dany allowed it, for several moments, but her own kisses became ever more heated, her tongue tangling with his, until she finally captured his tongue when it delved into the cavern of her own mouth, suckling it in a manner that made him think he might just burst into flame where he stood._

_She drew back, her eyes hooded and dark, a slim sliver of blue-green there around the inky black of her pupils, and took his hands in hers. She didn’t stop until the backs of her knees hit the straw-stuffed mattress, and she climbed up blindly, kneeling on the narrow bed and letting her hands fall to his breeches._

_She held him with her stare, even as her wicked fingers went to work, unlacing his trousers and finally, blessedly circling his stiff cock with a gentle caress. His chest heaved, and he grasped her wrist, trying to smile and barely managing a grimace._

_“You’re going to embarrass me if you don’t stop that,” he warned, but she only smiled, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she stroked him slowly._

_“I want to touch you,” she replied, her own voice husky with want, and she dropped her eyes to watch the motion of her hand, licking her lips. “I want to know you, Jon. Like this.”_

_He swallowed hard, the world narrowing to just the feel of her palm around him, the movement of her fist as she began to work him, the pleasure almost overwhelming. Finally, he tightened his hold and halted her movements, pulling her hand to his lips to kiss her palm. “I want to touch you, too. Let me touch you first, then you can do whatever you wish.”_

_Jon could hear the pleading in his own voice, and she gave him a sweet smile, seeming to understand. Slowly, she sat back, hair slipping over her shoulders in riotous waves, and settled back against his lumpy feather pillow. Raising a hand, she beckoned him closer, sighing happily and spreading her thighs open for him as he knelt between them._

_“Then touch me,” she whispered, and so he did._

_Fighting to stem the racing of his breath and his pounding heart, he tried to ignore the call of his own desire, to bury himself inside her, and let his hands blaze a path along her skin, starting at the hollow of her throat, then down along her delicate collarbone. His mouth followed behind, her skin sweet and fragrant under his tongue, hands forging ahead to the mounds of his breasts while he nosed and licked at the valley between, his ears listening closely as he worked, trying to determine what pleased her most. He twisted gently at her stiff, eager nipples, smiling wickedly against the underside of one tit as she moaned his name._

_And still his palms traveled, while he replaced his fingers with his mouth, testing her reaction as he gently scraped his teeth against a hard tip, her hands digging into his hair, nails piercing his scalp when she cried out._

_Finally, he slid one hand along her stomach, leaning back to watch as her breasts shook with each panting breath she took, feeling the trembling of the muscles in her stomach as he moved lower still. Both groaned when he finally reached the slick heat of her center, and his head dropped as his fingers slid against the stiff nub at the apex._

_He had imagined this moment countless times, but his fantasies had not been able to approach the burning wetness he encountered, so damp her thighs were slick with her want, and it was all he could do to keep control of himself. The last thing he wished to do was hurt her, and he had no doubt it likely would, when he finally thrust inside her. If he could bring her pleasure first, he thought, perhaps it would not be so very bad._

_Untried as he was, there were some things he’d heard of, one in particular that he thought might be worth a go. He scooted back as far as he could, till he could slide her legs atop his shoulders. Dany’s head rose from the pillow as she sucked in a breath, her eyes curious and more than a little nervous as she looked down her body to find him watching her, his mouth hovering just above her cunt._

_“What are you doing?” She propped herself up on her elbows, her lips parted and wet as she stared at him, breathing heavily._

_“I want to kiss you here, as well,” he answered, his own breath puffing out against her wet, pink flesh. She was so beautiful, all of her, but especially here, and though he had little to compare to, Jon thought she might have the most beautiful cunt in the world. Davos had told him that of all the treasures in the world, the greatest lay between a woman’s legs, and he thought now he might understand. His mouth watered, the smell of her enchanting him, and he was seconds away from allowing his tongue to swipe along the length of her, to satisfy his own desire and curiosity. “Can I?”_

_She said nothing, for a heartbeat, catching her lower lip between her teeth, before finally nodding. “If you wish,” she said, and it was all he needed to hear. He buried his face in her folds, licking at the salty-sweet taste of her, instantly addicted as he tried to find his bearings. He didn’t know exactly what he ought to do, so he tried several things, his lips capturing her lower ones and pulling gently, his tongue teasing at her entrance as even more wetness flowed from her, trying to discern from her every cry and writhing twist of her hips what she liked. When he took her swollen nub between her lips she started to shake, keening and whining loudly as her back arched sharply, and he knew he’d found somewhere to linger._

_He pried his eyes apart, groaning against her slick flesh when he found her watching him still, her eyes narrowed and her chest heaving, lovely tits swaying as she grabbed at the back of his head to hold him there. Gods, no one had ever looked at him with such heated desire, and he thought he never wanted anyone to look at him again like that, only her, forever. When he flicked at the bud with his tongue she called his name even louder, her eyes shutting in helpless pleasure, and he varied between the two, a gentling suckling and the flicking of his tongue, until she could do little but quiver and shaking against him, her thighs trapping him on either side of his head as her hand finally fell away. She was twisting his bed coverings in both fists, so close he could feel it under his tongue._

_Purely on instinct, he slid his hand just below his lips, slipping one finger, then a second inside her tight sheath, cock aching at how tight she was, wondering if he would survive actually being inside her. He slid his fingers in and out as she began to chant his name, hips circling mindlessly, his mouth never relenting, and then suddenly she was there, her clasp clutching in a rippling rhythm against the digit, wetness spilling out as she arched and moaned and gripped him in waves that seemed to go on forever._

_Finally, she fell back against the bedding, her walls still twitching against his finger, but more slowly now, as she came down from the high of her release._

_“Oh,” she managed to gasp out. “Oh, Jon.” Her legs fell from his shoulders, and she pulled at his head, trying with weak, trembling hands to pull her atop him. He let loose a loud, guttural moan at the feel of her against his cock, his hips thrusting of their own accord at the wet heat of her center as she kissed him breathlessly._

_“Where did you learn that?” She asked the question between kisses rained upon his face, something like wonder in her eyes as she looked at him in awe._

_Jon shrugged, giving her a bashful smile. “I’ve only heard about it, really.” His attention was divided, half on the sweet smile that danced across her lips, half on the feel of his aching cock sliding steadily against her now, dangerously close to where he really wished to be. “Was it alright?”_

_“Alright?” She huffed out a laugh, then wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his whole weight upon her as she kissed him senseless. When he pulled back, trying to catch his breath, she smirked at him, nails scraping teasingly at his neck. “Very, very alright.” On either side of his hips, her knees drew up, giving his questing cock greater access to her slippery center. “Are you ready?”_

_Jon let out an unsteady breath, letting his elbows bracket her head, taking care not to trap her hair. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, even as he rolled his hips against her with more force, his cock bumping against her entrance._

_He closed his eyes at the sensation, feeling her hands sweep along his forehead and smooth sweaty curls back from his face. “I want you inside me, Jon. Just be gentle, yes?”_

_She stiffened slightly, in anticipation, and he nodded. Leaning on one elbow, he reached down, aligning the head of his cock, eyes trained on her face as he slowly pushed his way inside her._

_It was painstaking, the urge to thrust inside her strong, his desire to not cause her undue pain barely stronger. Inch by inch, he pressed onward, his eyes threatening to cross from the tight grip of her walls as deeper and deeper he went. He felt resistance, realizing it was her maidenhead, felt her tense at the pressure, and set his free hand to play against the little bud there, knowing it might bring her pleasure in spite of the sting this intrusion would surely cause._

_Dany was gasping for air now, lips parted, clutching at his shoulders. “Do it,” she urged, and he complied, a swifter roll of his hips seating him fully inside her. She gave another cry, this one not nearly so pleased, and he was all too eager to wait, to let her adjust to the feel of him seated deep within her, not just to let the discomfort subside but to give him time to regain his bearings. Nothing he was certain of it, had ever felt as good as this, the squeeze of her like a vise, so slick and hot he could do nothing in the moment but moan as his head dropped against her neck._

_“Dany,” he panted brokenly, as he fought to remain motionless. “Are you alright?”_

_He felt the motion her nod, felt her grip grow tighter, and then she brought her calves up to notch above his hips, ankles locking at the small of his back. He shuddered, shaking, when he felt her walls clench against him, as she squeezed his cock purposefully._

_“Move,” she urged, holding him tight. “It’s alright.”_

_With effort, he brought his head up, eyes searching hers, taking several deep breaths at what he saw in those cerulean depths._

_It had to be what she would find in his own, nothing short of love, something real, almost tangible, making the air shimmer between them. He tentatively withdrew, thrusting in again gently, watching her tremble and smile at him. “Again,” she said, digging her heels into his back as he obeyed, thrusting more firmly this time._

_He had to grit his teeth and close his eyes, because no matter how many times he’d sought release with his own hand it had never felt like this. Nothing in all his life had ever felt like this, this hot, this perfect, and he had the horrible notion that he was not going to last very long at all. Still, he tried, struggling to keep his pace slowly, not daring to speed up or increase the force of his thrusts until she began to circle her hips up against him, her head tossing as he circled that little nub, flicking with his thumb as he had with his tongue, keeping time with the slide of his cock inside her._

_He felt the pressure building, the knot of pleasure inside him coalescing, that burning itch finally building beyond his control, and his movements became jerking and uncontrolled. “I can’t--,” he tried to warn her, finding words a near impossibility, “I’m, I can’t, I need to—”_

_“Let go,” she whispered, and raised her head to latch her mouth to the damp column of his throat, sucking hard against his skin, surely marking him as hers. “I want you to.”_

_His own release thundered through him, his seed spilling from him in burning bursts that he felt down to the tips of his toes. He groaned her name, pleasure overwhelming him, the feel of her penetrating everything, searing itself into his memory as he let it overtake him. It was all he could do to keep himself propped up on his arm, his other hand gripping her thigh tight as he let each wave roll through him with the rocking of his hips._

_Finally, it was done, everything growing fuzzy in the aftermath, the only thing in existence being Dany, under him, around him, swamping his every sense._

_His mouth was dry, his skin heated and dewed with sweat, and when he finally found the strength to raise his head, he wanted to weep at the way she was smiling up at him._

_“I love you,” she whispered, and he knew those words would never sound as sweet from another._


	4. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Targaryen returns to Dragonstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, what you've been waiting for (I assume), plus maybe some things you hadn't expected, as well :)
> 
> I appreciate the awesome feedback and comments. Thanks for taking this strange ride with me, Quarantinas and Quarantinos!
> 
> P.S. - I changed the chapter count because I realized I had six chapters, not five, given my current breakdown of between 8k - 11k per chapter. (Although, this chapter is 14k, so you'll want to get comfy for that one!)

The little Princess was bored.

It was clear to Jon, so he assumed it must be clear to everyone around them, as well, but as of yet, none seemed inclined to do anything about it.

Ghost still accompanied her to her lessons, but the Lady Missandei reported the girl grew increasingly restless. No doubt, the absence of her mother was a large part of the reason, but when she was not in lessons he had glimpsed her wandering aimlessly about the grounds on several occasions.

He was not surprised, then, at the beginning of his third moon on Dragonstone, when she turned up in the training yards, watching the sparring soldiers practicing with the intensity of one thirsty for knowledge.

She reminded him, yet again, of his sister Arya, and there had only been one course of action when Arya had begun loitering around the armory, hanging on the wooden fenceposts as the Northern soldiers swung their swords and loosed their arrows.

After three days of her presence, Jon finally broke the stalemate, deflecting his Uncle’s blow and laughing when the man called him off, panting. “You’ve gotten quite skilled, Nephew,” Arthur called out, shaking his head as they sheathed their swords. “I don’t know if these old bones can take another parry like that!”

Jon laughed, clapping the man on the shoulder against his training leathers. “There’s always more to learn, Uncle. Perhaps your training is merely making me better.”

Arthur smiled ruefully. “Now, I don’t know about that.” Still, he seemed pleased by the praise. “Shall we go again?”

Jon’s gaze slipped to Naerys, who remained watching quietly from her perch atop the wooden fencing, Ghost sitting stalwartly at her side. He had been seized by an idea, though he was not sure the King or his closest confidante would approve. “What about the Princess?” Jon’s chin ticked toward the girl. “Has she no training?”

Arthur’s head tilted, frowning slightly as he thought. “Not that I am aware of,” he finally responded. “The Dothraki do not train their women, so far as I understand. And I do not think Rhaegar has set her about training with sword or bow.” He searched Jon’s face. “Why? Do you think she ought to?”

Jon looked again to the Princess, sure she was listening, though she feigned nonchalance, and sure enough, as soon as their eyes met, she gave a slight nod, eyes pleading. Jon quirked his lips in a quick smile, winking at the girl before he turned his attention back to his Uncle. “Aye,” he said. “Couldn’t hurt, could it? A dragon she may have,” Jon drawled, “but she ought to know how to defend herself when she isn’t in the air.”

He could see Arthur considering his words, for several long moments, then the taller man crossed to where the Princess sat. “What say you, Princess? Do you want to become warrior?”

Her eyes grew as wide as her grin, and she nearly fell from her perch when she raised both hands to clap excitedly. “Oh, yes, Ser Arthur. Please!” She climbed down and into the yard, looking between the two men with growing merriment. “I promise to try very hard!”

“Try what?” A voice sounded from behind Arthur, and all three turned to find Rhaegar approaching, clearly amused.

“Uncle!” Naerys ran to the fencing and reached up to clutch the King’s forearm. “Ser Arthur and Prince Jon think I should learn to be a warrior. Can I? Please? I want to learn!”

Rhaegar pursed his lips, amethyst Targaryen eyes bouncing between Jon and Arthur as he considered the request. “Do you promise to finish your studies first? And to give Missandei all your attention?”

Naerys nodded adamantly. “I swear it!”

Rhaegar’s lips twitched at the girl’s solemn tone. “And will you train your very hardest? And listen to your instructors, and do as they ask?”

Silver braids bounced at the girl’s emphatic nod. “Yes, Uncle, I promise!”

Rhaegar straightened, crossing his arms across his chest, his own black leathers stretched across his tall frame. “Well, then, I see no reason why you should not. In fact,” he raised a finger in the air, waving it at Jon, “I think Prince Jon ought to oversee your training.”

Jon furrowed his brow; Surely the Targaryen Master at Arms would wish such a task for himself, but Rhaegar’s melodic voice cut him off. “Your father has told me of your great success in training your sister, Prince Jon. Surely Naerys would benefit from your tutelage.”

Naerys looked so overjoyed at the prospect that Jon thought she might float from the ground. In truth, he didn’t mind the task so much. His own afternoons were rather boring affairs when he was not called in to one of the King’s strategy meetings, and it would not hurt to continue to build a relationship with the girl who would be his daughter, once he and the girl’s mother were wed. “If the Princess wishes,” he responded, bowing slightly in the girl’s direction, “then it would be an honor.”

Naerys squealed and scrambled through the fencing, hugging her arms around Ghost’s neck before bouncing on her heels.

“But,” Jon continued, more seriously, watching the girl’s head whip around at his words, “be warned, Princess. I won’t be going easy on you. Are you sure this is what you wish?” Jon clucked his tongue. “You can be certain you’ll get a few bumps and bruises.”

The girl stood tall as she could, hardly reaching the top of Ghost’s foreleg, and mirrored Jon’s pose. “I want to learn,” she said, jaw sticking out stubbornly.

Jon felt his shoulders shake as he concealed a chuckle. Just like Arya, she was. “As you wish, then. We will begin tomorrow, *after* your lessons.”

She moved in a flash, shimmy through the fence again to rush Jon and wrapping her arms around his leg, hugging tight. “Thank you, Prince Jon.”

Jon smiled down. “We’ll see if you’re thanking me tomorrow, Princess.”

\----------

Jon was, as ever, true to his word, and the next afternoon he waited for the Princess to join him, training bow in hand, across from a row of targets.

He chuckled at the sight of her, Missandei and Arthur in toe, clad in the small set of leathers, the sort she’d worn when he’d met the Targaryen dragons. They would do, he supposed. He waved her over, smiling at the way her eyes lit up at the little bow in his hands.

“Are you ready?” She grinned widely in turn, and he thanked the Old Gods that today was a day for the common tongue when she answered.

“Yes, Prince Jon,” she chirped. She waited for him to hand the bow over, her palms raised expectantly, but he merely handed her a wrist guard and showed her how to put it on, after he determined which hand she favored most.

“Have you ever used one of these?”

She shook her head, her hair braided tight to her scalp today, trailing into one larger braid that led down her back.

Jon showed her how to hold the weapon, nudging her feet into place, positioning her so that her back was straight, demonstrating to her the way to draw back the bowstring and let her arrow fly. She practiced the motion, over and over, at his instruction, until he was satisfied she had a feel for it.

Finally, he handed over an arrow, and everyone watched as she drew back, only to have the arrow fall limp instead of flying forward. “Keep your fingers firm,” Jon said, and helped her again, and together, they watched her arrow sail for the target this time, plunking into the lower corner.

“Now, do it again,” he barked, crossing his arms and leaning against a post.

She did, but her arrow fell short.

“Again,” he instructed.

Naerys did as he asked, never speaking a word in opposition, listening closely and correcting after each release, until finally, after what Jon thought must’ve been at least two hours, she let loose with an arrow that hit the upper edge of the ringed, painted target.

The Princess whooped with joy, and Missandei and Arthur clapped, but Jon kept his face straight.

“A fair shot,” he said blandly, “but you can do better.” He pointed to the arrows scattered across the yard. “Now go gather your arrows, and do it again.”

He could see it then, the urge to complain, just a bit, but she must have thought better of it, setting her shoulders and marching out to the pitch, her little form dipping up and down as she painstakingly hunted down every arrow she’d shot.

And then, without his prompting, she began to shoot again.

Three shots more and she placed another on the target, closer in this time, but still a fair distance from the center. “Use that shot to correct your aim,” Jon said, pointing to the target. “And try again.”

Over and over she went, until Jon was sure her little fingers would be stinging from the twang of the bowstring, but she did not relent, landing shot after shot, ever close, until finally, as the sun began to set and the sky was painted with streaks of pink, she landed an arrow in the dead center.

This time, she did not jump around and shout, just nodded to herself, proudly. “I did it,” came the girl’s whisper, and now Jon gave her the praise she deserved.

“Very well done, Princess. You are a natural, I think.” He grasped the wrist of the hand not still holding the bow, and looked at it closely. “Do your fingers ail you?”

They were red, he could see, but she shook her head in the negative. He narrowed his eyes, fighting a smile. Stubborn little thing, she was.

“They will,” Jon intoned, “until you’ve built up callouses. Meet me here tomorrow, and we’ll shoot again.”

\----------

For a fortnight, they kept at it, wrapping the girl’s fingers when they bled from use, Naerys insisting she continue practicing, and by the time they were two weeks out from her mother’s return Jon was slightly amazed at the girl’s progress. She had progressed from the close distance they’d started at, finding her target more often than not even as Jon moved her further away, testing her range and accuracy in a variety of ways.

Missandei reported that she had become more attentive, as promised, but was utterly exhausted by the time she put the girl to bed, and more to the point, she had stopped her aimless, somewhat melancholy wanderings. She had not lamented her mother’s absence even once, and for this Jon was pleased.

His own family, left behind in the North, still caused a bit of a twinge in his own heart, so he was sure it must be magnified for the girl. Her mother was the only family she’d ever had, until just recently, and as he’d suspected, distraction was a welcome respite, for all of them.

He still dreamed of Dany, of the love he’d lost, but he had found, as he spent more time on this island, that perhaps he was growing his own callouses as well. He had another chance, he told himself, to make something new, and it could be that he could even learn to love this mysterious sister of Rhaegar’s. The trick, he knew, was allowing himself to be open to it, to letting his heart be once more bared and vulnerable to pain.

But for the first time, in a very long time, he thought he might be ready.

When only a sennight remained, before the return of his betrothed, he was summoned to the King’s council chambers, the fire burning in the hearth as always, the austere stone room glowing red and gold in the firelight.

Rhaegar stood at the windows, looking out, not turning until Jon cleared his throat. The prince glanced about, noting that no guards stood at attention. He’d sent Davos off to drink with the Northmen, leaving his own small guard behind.

“Jon,” Rhaegar said, gesturing to the set of chairs by the fire. “Please, sit.”

He didn’t miss the somber set of the King’s face, even as the man poured wine for them both and handed Jon a goblet. Jon swirled the amber liquid around, his own solemn reflection greeting him as he considered why this man had asked for his presence.

“You have a look about you, Jon.” The Prince glanced up, frowning at the King’s assessment, confused. Rhaegar smiled slightly. “The look of a man who has loved and lost. Your wife, I wonder? You father tells me the sickness claimed her, as it did Queen Catelyn.”

Jon ran his tongue across his teeth, glad for the beard that hid his cheeks, something shameful twisting in his chest at the question. If he had indeed spoken on this with Jon’s father, then he likely already knew the answer. “No,” Jon admitted quietly. “Not my wife.”

Rhaegar seemed non-plussed, humming to himself as he sipped his wine. “Political marriages are not always happy affairs, are they?” He did not wait for Jon to answer, but he broke their shared gaze, turning his eyes to the flames. “I hope, for your sake and my sister’s, that such is not the case between you. She has suffered enough, I think. Just as you have.”

Jon grimaced slightly, sucking in a breath. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but it seems to me that she has suffered a great deal more. Does she really wish to do this? To be married to a stranger?”

Rhaegar’s countenance softened at the question. “Just Rhaegar, please. And while she has suffered, it has made her strong, though no one would have wished such to come about in the way it did. I can swear to you that she does nothing she does not wish to. She knows the value in such alliance, Jon. And what it means, for what comes next.”

Jon straightened in his seat, his interest piqued. “Next?”

The King set aside his goblet, hand gripping the armrests of his chair as he looked steadily at Jon. “Yes, Jon. Next. Once we have defeated the Lannisters. I confess,” he sighed, “that while both your father and I disagree with their motivations, there is some value in the ultimate goal that Tywin and his awful children strive for. They wish to take all the kingdoms for their own,” he continued, freeing a hand to sip at his wine once more, “and so do we.”

Jon sat back, suspicion creeping in as he mulled over the King’s words. “You will take them for yourself, then? Make yourself King?”

Rhaegar let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, no, Jon. Nothing like that. No.” He leaned towards Jon, slightly, lips curving up in a smile. “I will make you King, and my sister Queen. All the Kingdoms, united, under one rule.” He shook his head as his eyes slid away, back to the dancing fire. “This endless warring must stop, Jon. We can none of us survive if we are constantly fighting amongst ourselves.”

Jon’s breath rushed out heavily. “And you and my father have been planning this?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Since Arthur returned from Essos last year, since he found my sister there in the Great Grass Sea, an army at her back, with three dragons at her command. It will take nothing less to bring all these fools to heel, mind you.”

Jon shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Even if that is true, how long can such hold? It cannot be done without the support of the other Kingdoms, half of which the Lannisters have already overthrown.”

Rhaegar smiled wanly, elbows drawing up, fingers steepling under his chin. “The deposed Tyrells currently shelter in Dorne. And I can assure you, we have Dornish support, Jon Stark. For you have their blood within you, do you not? The Tyrells will return to the Reach, the Vale and the Riverlands extend their support, and of course, the North.”

“And what of you? And my father? All these Houses would so willingly give up their power to me? To your sister?”

Rhaegar regarded him solemnly. “We wish for peace, all of us, an end to the constant wars that plague these lands. We tire of seeing our people die, merely for the sake of power. We shall remain on, as wardens of our Kingdoms, answering only to the crown that binds us all together. And should there be those who resist, who decide to act against their King and Queen?” Something gleamed in the man’s eyes, something more bloodthirsty than Jon might’ve expected from the normally placid man. “Well, now, what exactly do you suppose those dragons are for?”

Jon’s brows raised mightily, but he could not deny the truth in the man’s words. Before such grand creatures, he had no doubt that every knee would bend, eventually. And he could also not deny the bit of savage thrill that coursed through him, at the thought. He was no stranger to war or bloodshed.

It was love that held the most fear for him.

Rhaegar seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts, as now it was he who cleared his throat. “We shall speak on this again, I assure you. But for now, back to my original question, if you don’t mind. Tell me of this one you loved, that has broken you so.”

Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the course the King had set them on now. “Just a girl,” he finally bit out, staring into his wine despondently. “A girl I met, across the Narrow Sea.” His jaw tensed, his teeth grinding together as he tried to keep the memories at bay. “It was a very long time ago,” he whispered, “in my sixteenth year.”

Rhaegar said nothing, and finally, when Jon could bear it, he looked up, imagining the man would be staring into the hearth, remembering his own losses, surprised to find himself the subject of strangely intense focus.

Tapping a finger against his lips, the King considered Jon’s words. “Across the Narrow Sea, you say?” There was a forced lightness in the man’s voice, a current of curiosity running underneath. “In your sixteenth year,” Rhaegar repeated, seemingly more to himself than to Jon. “How did you manage to find yourself there?”

“Father sent me.” Jon raised a hand to his shoulder, where his scars still lingered below his tunic and leathers. “After an attempt on my life.”

Rheagar’s lips formed an ‘o’ as comprehension dawned. “Ah, yes. Forgive me, Jon.” He leaned forward, staring at the floor, now, sorrow weighing heavy on his shoulders. “I fear that was a terrible time, for me as well. Many losses in so short a span, made it difficult to keep up with what happened outside these shores.”

Jon sipped absently from his goblet. That was true for everyone, he supposed. It was not until he had returned home, heartbroken and morose, healed but torn apart from within, that he learned of what had happened to House Targaryen. The King and Queen, dead, his Aunt Lyanna and cousin Rhaenys dead as well, Viserys Targaryen missing along with his little sister, the Princess Daenerys. Only Rhaegar had remained, in those dark times, consumed by grief. That was what his father had told him, his own spirit near breaking at the loss of his beloved sister.

“Do not worry yourself, Rhaegar.” Jon tested out the moniker, not sure he was comfortable referring to the man by only his first name, but it was what the King had requested. “We have all lost much since then. I wouldn’t have expected you to know everything that has happened so far from here.”

Rhaegar rubbed at his temples, shaking his head as though ridding himself of his own ghosts. “No, I suppose not.” He turned his head, just barely meeting Jon’s eyes. “Where did Ned send you? I seem to recall he suspected the Lannisters were involved in the assassination attempt on you. They were involved in many deaths, both then and now.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed grimly. “He sent me to Lys, with the man who came here with my, Ser Davos.”

This earned a soft laugh from Rhaegar. “The Onion Knight?” He slowly nodded to himself. “Makes sense, actually. None better to traverse the sea than Ser Davos Seaworth, if you want something hidden.” Then he frowned, eyes narrowing as they focused on Jon, amusement falling away. “I’m sorry, did you say Lys? I could’ve sworn I thought it was Pentos, once upon a time, now that I think on it. Perhaps time has simply dulled my senses.” He leaned forward, squinting at Jon as though he was studying him, his eyes sharp, not even slightly dulled by the wine. "I think I recall Arthur speaking of it now, but I feel certain it was Pentos, in his telling of the tale."

Jon couldn’t tell what difference it made, really. “No, it was Lys. I’m sure of it.” He sighed heavily, dark eyes settling on the hearth again. “I met a girl there. Fell in love with her. She died, and I lived, and still she haunts me.”

Rhaegar sat back, breath whistling out as he exhaled, quiet and ponderous for several long moments. “’Tis an awful fate, to watch the one you love die. There are none who know that better than me.” With a haunted smile, he looked at Jon, in commiserating sadness. “And to live without that love is almost worse than death. At least with death,” he said, taking a heavy drink from his goblet, “there is an end.”

Jon nodded, not knowing what else to say.

The men sat, in companionable misery, for what seemed an age. Finally, sweeping a hand through his loose silver hair, Rhaegar spoke. “There is a room, here, that I have kept untouched. The King’s chambers, that I never use. Because I shared them with her, you see. The little room off the side was our nursery, where my little Rhaenys loved to play. Still, all these years later, they sit just as they were left. Because if I change them, I lose my last memories. I’m afraid I will forget: their faces, their voices, the way they laughed, the way we loved.”

Rhaegar shook his head emphatically, his voice breaking with emotion. “I am too far lost in my own grief, Jon, and I will be until my dying day. Don’t let yourself do the same. Don’t lose yourself to the ghosts of the past, don’t sacrifice yourself to the misery that I have. Let yourself live.”

Jon felt his own eyes grow hot, the chain around his neck weighing heavily upon him. Rhaegar had shared with him, and so he felt compelled to do the same in return, perhaps because no one else might understand, not the way the King could. He drew the ring free, tugging until the silver links broke, and let the item dangle between himself and the King, watching the orange glow play along each swoop and swirl of metal.

“This was hers,” Jon whispered. “It’s all I have left of her. The fire took the rest.”

He had thought, when he looked upon Rhaegar’s face, he would find pity, understanding. What he found instead was pure, unadulterated shock. He moved to stash the ring away, in his pocket, wondering if he had committed some offense, by bringing the token here, showing it to the man whose sister he would wed.

A hand reached out to stop him, as Rhaegar finally spoke. “May I?” The man’s voice was so thin, so thready, that Jon wondered if he was, indeed, troubled that Jon had brought the item to this island, but when he held out his hand the Prince laid it in the man’s palm all the same. He watched, in silence, as the silver-haired King turned the ring around, over and over, fingers tracing each curve and swoop of the metal, just as Jon had done a thousand times.

When he finally looked up again, his expression was inscrutable. “This ring is Valyrian steel. Very valuable. Did you know that, Jon?”

Jon supposed he hadn’t really pondered it, but it made sense, in a way. If the fire that consumed that manse had been able to melt the very walls, it ought to have destroyed Dany’s ring, as well. But it had remained untouched, still carrying enough heat to give him the scar that still marred his palm, where he’d clenched it tight, in his agony, in his sorrow.

“No,” Jon managed. He extended his hand, suddenly discomfited to see another holding such a personal memento, and yet it still took several ponderous seconds for the Targaryen King to return it to him. He was surprised to see the wetness in the older man’s eyes, but only briefly. Perhaps Jon’s tale of loss was merely a reminder of Rhaegar’s own.

They did not speak, and as Jon looked on Rhaegar quickly downed the rest of his wine, long fingers tracing against his jaw, seemingly lost in thought.

“I shouldn’t have brought it,” Jon finally said, barely loud enough for his own ears to discern, but Rhaegar heard him all the same, his head whipping around to study Jon as he tucked the ring away again. “I know that. I know I have to leave the past where it belongs,” he stuttered, not even knowing why he was still speaking, wishing he’d shut his fool mouth up already, “but it’s hard.”

Rhaegar drew in a breath, released it with a slow, steady exhale, then, to Jon’s surprise, gave him a small, understanding smile. “None know that burden better than I do, Jon. Save, perhaps, for your father. But,” he said, still stroking his jaw, almost absently, “perhaps you ought to hang on to that a bit longer. Moving on does not have to mean forgetting, completely. Perhaps there is room in your heart, still, for another.” He leaned over, pouring wine for each of them, then taking a much more measured drink before he continued. “You have found much kindness inside yourself for my niece, and for that I am very grateful. I have no doubt my sister will be, as well.” Now, his smile grew, a true smile at last. “Naerys is quite fond of you, no small accomplishment. She has not had an easy life.”

Jon shook his head, not quite sure how to take being praised for being nothing more than decent. “Not a hard undertaking. She’s a good lass.” Jon sipped at his own drink, then gave a dry chuckle. “More often than not, she reminds me of my sister, Arya. It’s almost like being home, again, in a way. Makes it easier not to miss Winterfell.”

Rhaegar’s brows raised. “Is that so?” He turned his face back to the fire. “How very interesting.” There was an edge to the man’s voice that Jon didn’t quite understand, but he shrugged it off. It didn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things, and Rhaegar had given him quite enough to ponder without Jon setting to the task of dissecting every nuance and tone of the other man’s words.

The Dragon King stood, suddenly, tending to the fire with the poker beside the hearth then adding a few logs, stoking the licking flames to greater life. “Jon,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to turn, “I pray you will not think me rude, but I should like to be alone for a bit. There are things I must think upon, if you will excuse me.”

“Of course,” Jon said, rising to take his leave, taking his goblet with him. “I pray you rest well, Rhaegar.”

He made his way to the door, taking another swallow of wine, his mind straying to what lay ahead. Gods knew he had plenty to think upon, as well.

\----------

Three days before Daenerys Targaryen was set to arrive, her ships were spotted, their black and red banners a stark contrast to the blue skies above, inky blots on the horizon.

Naerys did not arrive in the training yard, and after an hour of waiting, Jon decided to set about finding her. Ghost was with her, that much he knew, and so instead of trying to puzzle out where the little Princess was hiding, he let the pull of his wolf do the finding for him.

He did, in short order, find the pair, seating on a low stone ledge, over looking the crashing sea below the rocky cliffs. He wondered if it was her mother’s dragon the girl was searching for, wondered if she yearned to climb atop her own and search the skies above.

When he came close enough to see her profile, in sharp detail, he laughed to himself. She had persisted in her whispered conversations with Jon’s direwolf, insisting that the two were telling secrets to each other, the most important sort of secret, the girl had intimated. He had no desire to dissuade her of the notion, though it didn’t seem to him that Ghost would know much more than the spots he chose to relieve himself, and what time of day the cook threw him cuts of pork and beef before the night’s meal was served.

Everyone in the Keep, it seemed, had learned that staying on Ghost’s good side was easy enough if you were willing to toss him savory treats every now and then.

He knew, as well, that Naerys had taken to giving Ghost honeycakes at every opportunity, trying her very best to be sly about it, but she had certainly taken his advice to heart. If he wasn’t careful, his wolf would become rather larger around the middle than would be advisable.

Jon waited until Naerys had finished her whispered words and turned back to the see before he called out a greeting, not wishing to interrupt what was no doubt, for a girl of six, a very important conversation.

“Have you forgotten our lesson today, Princess?”

“Oh!” Naerys looked about, startled, slumping slightly, clearly not realizing she’d been late. He couldn’t bring himself to scold her when she’d clearly lost track of time. It was an easy thing to do, he’d found, tucked away on Dragonstone. She leapt up, hands pressed together, her face painted with worry. “Can you forgive me, Prince Jon? I did not know it was so late!”

Jon smiled, patting a hand atop her braided hair. “Not to worry, Princess.” He gestured to the ledge, ruffling a hand through Ghost’s fur as well. “May I join you?” The small girl nodded, seeming relieved as she sat as well, sandwiched between Jon and his wolf. She leaned against Ghost’s side and let out a sigh.

“I was watching for Mama,” she whispered, and Jon nodded at the admission. It was as he’d thought. “I miss her so.” He watched as her little hands fumbled in her lap. “I shall be happy to see her again.”

“I’m sure she will be very happy to see you again, as well. No doubt she has missed you greatly.” He felt his own nervousness at the prospect of Daenerys’s arrival; It had been easy enough to earn the Princess’s favor, and Rhaegar’s as well, but of his betrothed he was coming to find such a task daunting. “Let us hope she finds me favorable as well.”

Naerys said nothing, for a moment, her eyes on her hands, something sad in the deep purple of her eyes when she finally looked to Jon. “Ser Arthur said you don’t have a Mama.”

Jon’s lips pressed together tight, and he tipped his head, studying the Princess. “No, I don’t. I did, a very long time ago, but she died just after I was born. She was Ser Arthur’s sister, did you know that?” He had long ago let go of that loss, of the mother he’d never known, but there would always be a twinge of hurt that accompanied any discussion of her. “Her name was Ashara.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Naerys said, and before another word was spoken, she had taken his large hand in her small one, using her other to pat against their joined hands comfortingly. “Does it make you very sad?”

Jon shook his head. “Not so much, anymore. But sometimes, I suppose, it makes me a little sad.”

“I don’t have a Papa.” He could hear the sorrow in her voice, and he squeezed her hand, slightly, finding himself wanting to comfort her, now. He understood that pain, most certainly, to be absent a parent. It was Arthur who had told him the tale, that the Dothraki Khal the girl’s mother had been sold to had died just before the Princess’s birth, a world away from here.

“I know,” Jon answered quietly, as silence fell between them. “It’s alright to be sad about that, too, if you like.”

Naerys gave a little shrug, her head lifting, eyes peering up at him. “I was afraid when you came. Uncle said you were going to marry Mama, and that you would be my new Papa, but I was scared that you would be a bad man. Sometimes people are bad, and they want to hurt me.”

Jon’s eyes grew a little misty, remembering the scared little boy he had been, so very long ago. He cleared his suddenly tight throat, and squeezed her hand again. “I don’t want to hurt you, or your Mama. I promise.” He nudged his shoulder against her, and nodded towards Ghost. “Neither does my wolf.”

At that, Naerys grinned wide, and she rubbed her head against Ghost’s fur, where she was still pressed against the white wolf’s body. “I know,” she whispered. “We are very dear friends. Missandei says that means the best kind, to be ‘very dear friends’.”

Jon laughed under his breath. “I think that is true.” He smiled at the girl, then looked towards the horizon. “So, Princess, do you suppose your Mama will approve of Ghost and I? We are strangers, after all. Perhaps she will find us quite silly, as we are like to be at times.”

She almost seemed offended at the question. “Oh, no. Mama will like you very much. I will tell her to.” She freed one hand to sweep along Ghost’s muzzle. “Ghost is my very sweetest friend in the world, except for Silverwing. And he can come inside with me, and I like that very much.”

At that, Jon let out a full-throated laugh, thinking that he would’ve been hard-pressed to find a way in which his wolf had an advantage over such a magical creature as a dragon. “I suppose he has that working in his favor, now that you say it. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“And,” the Princess whispered, lowering her voice though no one was about to hear them, “he eats all my greens at dinner, and I like that, too.” At the admission, her brow creased with worry, and she looked to him with the same pleading expression as before. “Don’t tell Mama about that. She will be cross, I think.”

“Well,” Jon drawled, trying to look stern, but wondering if he was pulling it off convincingly, “So long as you try to eat them sometimes, I think I can keep your secret.” He raised her arm, pretending to feel at the muscle in her arm. “Besides, you must eat all your dinner if you want to be big and strong, and swing your sword true.” He had just begun to work with her at real combat, giving her a wooden training sword he had requested specially for her, one small enough to fit her tiny frame, with a shield to match.

Naerys nodded seriously. “I will try,” she said seriously, taking his words under deep consideration. “If you think I should, Prince Jon.”

Jon nodded approvingly. “I believe you,” he said, and he was rewarded with a charming, toothless smile.

“Prince Jon,” she said, her face growing serious, “may I tell you a secret?”

Jon became solemn as well. “If you wish.”

She stood up on the ledge, then, standing just taller than he was seated, and held his face between her small hands. “I am very glad you will be my new Papa. I think you are the very nicest man.”

At her declaration, she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck, and hugged him tight, and he found himself a bit choked up. Finally, he returned the gesture, patting a hand against her back. “I am very glad, too.”

When she drew back, he looked between girl and wolf. “Now,” he said, “let us see how well you can swing your sword today, yes?”

\-----------

Jon paced.

He was good at it, he knew. He had worn endless tracks across the fine wool rugs in the Keep of Winterfell, and his booted feet threatened to do the same to the intricate patterns that decorated the one below his feet, here, in his chambers on Dragonstone.

He had dismissed Davos some time ago, trying and failing to distract himself with cyvasse, and games of dice, before he’d finally had to throw up his hands in surrender, dismissing the old sailor with as best a smile as he could muster. Davos had made him swear he would sleep this night, and he had promised as such, but he doubted he would be able to keep his word.

She was coming, on the morrow.

Daenerys.

He paused, to study his reflection in the leaded glass mirror atop his dressing table, wondering if she would be pleased with him, would find him a comely enough husband, at least. His hand rasped along the dark, bristling hair along his jaw, wondering if he ought to shave. It was the custom of Northmen, of a certain age at least, and in Jon’s case he’d found it made him look older, sterner, made those around him take him a bit more seriously than the smooth cheeks of his younger years had.

Perhaps she would find him crass, and cold, a harsh man from a hard place.

Those things were true. But he was trying to be different, trying to become something else.

Rhaegar’s admission floated through his mind again. He could no longer be content to be the Crown Prince of the North, the future King of but one Kingdom.

If the Targaryen King had his way, he would become much more than that.

It all seemed too much, in the dark of this room, alone and left to his own warring thoughts. Even Ghost had chosen other accommodations, little Naerys begging so sweetly to allow the Ghost to slumber in her rooms that Jon had given in.

Perhaps, even in this, his betrothed would find fault, think him too soft on her daughter, but it couldn’t be helped. Every time he was in the girl’s presence, he saw himself, standing in her place, small and innocent and just a victim of fate, of a life she had not chosen. He would show her every kindness, every bit of grace that he could, show her that he would never seek to cause her harm, to make her feel as worthless as his father’s Tully bride had done to him. He did not imagine that he could compete with the brute force of the towering dragons that inhabited this island, nor the vast armies, but he would do what he could to protect her, teach her to protect herself. That was a gift he could give, and he would give it gladly.

He had to think there must be sweetness in her mother, as well, and it was this that settled his frantic, racing heart. Tomorrow, his bride would come, and they would meet, and likely wed in short order.

There were wars to wage, after all. There would be no time for pomp and circumstance, for elaborate ceremonies, and he had little desire for such, anyway.

He stared at his face, at the slim scar over his eye, his sad gray eyes gazing back at him.

Dany would laugh at him, if she were here. Tell him he was being a silly fool, brooding over being promised to a beautiful woman who commanded dragons, of all wonders, and an army of her very own. She would tell him he ought to find a bit of cheer, perhaps, that he stood on the precipice of power, poised to take these scattered Kingdoms and unite them, at last, under one banner, one rule.

He touched a finger to her ring, where it sat, still threaded on its broken chain, upon the dresser.

Then, chiding himself silently, he forced his hand away.

He had to stop this madness.

She was gone, and he’d tortured himself over the one woman he could never have for so long that he wondered if he was not already too far gone.

He owed it to this Targaryen Princess, to let this go.

And maybe, he owed it to himself.

Maybe every step had led him here, to this place, at this time. Maybe this was exactly where he was meant to be, his true destiny just beyond his fingertips, and he need only let go of the past to reach out and take it in both hands, tear some happiness for himself from this godsforsaken life he’d led ‘til now.

He had to kill the boy inside him, that boy who still dwelt in his sixteenth year, who still clung to those childish gossamer threads of love found and lost, far from here.

Jon took Dany’s ring, clenched it tight in his fist, then stalked to his trunk, there at the foot of his large bed. He threw open the lid, and placed the ring inside, shutting it away and hoping that, with enough time, he could close the door of the past just as finally.

Then he shed his clothes, and climbed between the furs and bed linens, and prayed for an untroubled, dream-free sleep that likely wouldn’t come.

\-----------

_After the first day, that first claiming of each other in the shadows of the small smuggler’s shack, they spent every spare moment that could be taken from the day together._

_Jon felt free, for the first time in his life. Freed from shame and propriety, from duty and obligation, left only with a hunger and aching, consuming love that he felt down to the marrow of his bones._

_They left no inch of skin undiscovered, exploring and mapping each other with curious, devoted inquisition. It was not long before Jon could admit he had mastered the mysterious art of bringing his sweet Dany to completion, with his mouth, his hands, his cock, or some combination of all three._

_She had met his ardor with equal fervor, performing such torturous delights on him that he imagined might only be witnessed in the finest brothels of this land, of which he understood there were many. This girl who walked about in bare feet and fine shifts, who carried on like a wild, uncaged thing with the grace of a highborn lady, had conquered him in every way._

_And with every day that passed, in the weeks that followed, he found himself wishing, above all else, that they did not have to part._

_But he had obligations, just as she did._

_He had duty to consider, and it would not be denied forever._

_Time pressed onward, as it always did, and they only grew hungrier for each other, with each setting and subsequent rise of the sun. It was only a matter of time; That was the unspoken truth between them._

_One truth, of the many that he kept to himself, that went unsaid._

_He wondered, when he would find himself bereft and alone in the night, awaiting the morning when she would return, if he ought to tell her who he truly was, that he was a prince, the Heir to the Northern Throne, Jonnel, son of Eddard, the future King in the North._

_But it was his cursed honor, his sworn promise to his Lord Father, that stilled his tongue._

_Still._

_He wondered, if he told her the truth, if she would believe that he could save her, could ferry her away from this unwanted marriage she had found herself set for, if she would come with him, when next he saw Davos’s sails in the bay._

_Perhaps it was, in truth, that he could not bear it if she still refused._

_Perhaps it was better not to know._

_Their last afternoon together, he lost count of their couplings. He took her on his narrow bed, mere seconds after her light knock sounded at his door. She rode him to exhaustion by the blue freshwater pool, her skin still damp and shining in the sun, with wanton abandon. He pressed her against the bark of a swaying palm, driving into her with a force he couldn’t control, her nails digging furrows in his shoulders as he buried himself inside her, again and again, her moans and cries louder than the sea birds that circled above._

_Still, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough._

_They lay in the shack, on his bed, Dany curled atop his chest and fingers tracing the scars at his shoulder, when she finally asked things she had not before._

_“Where were you, before you came to Lys, Jon?” She lifted her head, her cheek still damp with sweat, her voice still a bit breathless from their most recent joining, his seed no doubt slipping down her thighs. “Your accent, the way you speak. It is very,” she paused for a moment, “unique.”_

_Jon reached back with a sigh, shoving his pillow under his head so he could more easily meet her eyes. “The North,” he finally uttered, cautioning himself to tread carefully, now. “In Westeros. Far from here.”_

_The pads of her fingers stilled. “Really? They say it is very cold, in the North.”_

_“Aye,” Jon said, wrapping an arm around her body and pulling her more tightly to him. “It is.”_

_“Hmmmm.” She seemed to mull over his words, a slight smile playing about her pink lips as she gazed up at him, resting the tip of her chin against his sternum. “I suppose it’s no wonder you would wish for a life on the seas, far from all that snow and ice. I hear it’s dreary, in the North of Westeros.” Her eyes narrowed, and he felt a flare of panic at the sudden interest he saw on her face. “Have you no House, no family?”_

_His heart stuttered nervously. He could feel the lie rising, unbidden, an easy untruth to share, Catelyn Stark’s voice ringing in his ears as he considered how to answer. ‘You’re little better than a bastard boy,’ she’d spit at him, ‘as your precious mother hardly lived long enough to make you anything at all.’_

_“I’m a bastard,” he lied. “A Snow.”_

_He did not know how such things were considered in Lys, if her face would wrinkle in disgust, but instead, her brow furrowed, something sweet and sad flashing across her features. “Jon Snow,” she whispered, testing the name on her tongue. “I think that is a fine name.”_

_He smiled down at her fondly, the hand not clutching at her skin raising to trace through her rumpled, silken hair. “What of you, Dany? You are rather improper, to be sure,” he teased, snickering when she gasped in pretended offense, “but you speak like a fine, noble lady. Are you some Lyseni Lord’s daughter, some rich merchant, perhaps?”_

_He’d asked the wrong thing, he thought, when she pulled away, sitting up and drawing her knees to her chest, making herself small as she hugged her arms around her knees. He hated the loss of her warmth, and so he sat as well, prepared to apologize, but she spoke before he could._

_“No,” she said sadly. “I am in service to a noble House, certainly, a great House, but,” she continued, her lip beginning to tremble, “I fear I am little more than a servant. I am a pawn, to be traded about, as my guardian desires.”_

_She stumbled over the words, and he thought it must be that she was a lady in waiting, or something similar, ignorant enough to the social structure of Lyseni culture that he did not know what the equivalent would be. He was familiar enough with what that meant; Several of his father’s banners would send their daughters to court to be passed about, sold off to the highest bidder, their dowries and bodies given in exchange for a scrap of power here, a little more gold there. Some, of course, had been paraded about before him, all wishing to be the one who would be made the next Queen of the Northern Kingdom, and he’d despised every bit of it._

_He understood the politics, of course, but he had rarely been able to hide his distaste for it. In those games, he was as captive as those trueborn daughters, no thought spared to love or affection, only to the most beneficial match._

_Jon crept closer, ‘til he was seated beside her, and he threw an arm over her shoulder, pulling her against his side and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I wish we could stay here for a thousand years.”_

_She sniffed, and when she looked up again her eyes were ringed with red, a tear dropping down her cheek, even as her lips tipped upward. “As do I, Jon Snow.” Her face wrinkled with grief, and fresh tears began to fall, and when she spoke again her voice was breaking, thick with emotion. “But it cannot be, can it? We cannot escape our fates, no matter how we wish things were different.”_

_It was a pain that was almost unimaginable, a thousand daggers through his heart, ripping and stabbing, as it all became real to him, the fantasy of forever that he’d indulged in bursting as he fought back his own harsh cry. He twisted, pulling her into his lap, unable to stop his own hot tears from coursing down his face as he grasped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “If I could choose, Dany. If I could.” He fumbled for the words, for the way to tell her that she was all that would ever exist for him, in this lifetime and whatever came next. “I would choose only you.”_

_Dany let out a ragged sob, nodding mutely as she could not seem to speak, just then, and then burying her face against his neck, shoulders shaking as she cried openly now. There was no point in hiding his own sorrow, no shame in his agony, and so he held her, clutching her tightly, rocking them as he wet her skin with his tears._

_Finally, as her sobs subsided, she pulled back, swiping a hand blindly at her slick cheeks. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, and took several deep breaths before the silence was broken. “I am leaving, Jon. I cannot return to you after today.”_

_Panic gripped him, and the arms now wrapped around her back clasped more tightly, as though he could physically stop what was to come. “No, Dany.” He shook his head, beginning to tremble. “No, please, not yet.”_

_“I love you,” she pressed on, ignoring his protestations. She slid her knees to either side, straddling his lap, letting her arms circle his neck. “More than anything. More than anyone. I want you to know that.” Letting out a shaky breath, she kissed him, tenderly, regretfully. “Do you love me, Jon Snow?”_

_“Forever,” he bit out, fiercely, something hot and dangerous rising in his chest. “Only you, forever.”_

_That seemed to soothe her, just barely, and she rubbed the tip of her nose against his, each breath that fell from her lips puffing out against his. “Then show me. Love me one more time, one last time. Let me have one last bit of happiness before we part.”_

_He felt powerless, and weak. His want, as she pressed her center again him, his cock stiffening at the sensation, warred with his torment, and he wanted to weep and scream and curse the heavens just as much as he wanted to sink into her depths, to lose himself one final time inside her._

_In the end, it was desire that won, that yawning chasm of need that she’d created in him, and he said nothing, claiming her mouth with his in one bold move, their tongues stroking and seeking, lips clasping and unclasping as they gasped into each other’s mouths._

_But this time, he knew what he would do, knew how to touch her, and tease her, and he was more tender than he had ever been. Each stroke of his hand, as he laid her back upon his narrow bed, their skin alight in the afternoon sun that streamed through the window above, had a purpose. He moved with intent, his fingers memorizing the silky smoothness of her skin, cupping her breasts and giving her exactly what she craved. His lips knew where to press, and suckle, and kiss. His tongue branded her taste into his soul, all sweetness and sea salt and Dany, just Dany, as he travelled down her body._

_Jon brought her to release with his mouth, once, and then again, but when he sought a third her hands were there to pull him upwards, to bring their faces even. Her legs held him captive, made him her prisoner, as she mewled and pouted, seeking his cock and the pleasure he could give her. All the knowledge he’d gained, in these weeks spent loving each other endlessly, he put to good use, and this time, when he loved her, when he thrust and withdrew, it was slow, and measured, his every move designed to show her the things he still could not say._

_His eyes held hers the entire time, until she was crying his name, a keening whine as her back arched, as she writhed and rolled her hips, as her cunt grasped at grabbed at his cock and spurred his own release just after._

_Then they lay, their eyes locked together, their hands the only thing not still, as they traced the each other’s faces reverently._

_And when she was gone, when she dressed herself and kissed him goodbye, after he had stood on that beach, the tide lapping at his ankles, long after her form had disappeared from sight, he fell to his knees and wept, at last, his heart breaking into a million pieces in the setting sun._

\-----------

Morning dawned, and Jon rose, with a shudder and a gasp, his hand clutching his chest as he tried to calm his breathing.

It was not the sun’s rays that had caused him to awaken.

No, not at all.

A great, screeching cry had shaken the very stone walls of his rooms, and just when he thought he’d imagined it, it came again, impossibly loud and incredibly close.

He freed himself from his tangled bed linens and raced to the window, eyes blinking hard against the sun, until the sun was gone completely.

He looked up, and saw the reason.

A great black beast, a dragon even larger than the two he’d already made acquaintance with, beat its’ way across the sky on massive, leathery wings.

She was here.

Daenerys Targaryen had returned to Dragonstone.

Her enormous dragon circled once, and then again, before swooping out of sight, and then all was quiet, the only sound he heard now the beating of his heart, blood rushing through his veins, anxious excitement flooding him.

She was here, at last, and his future now lay in wait. With only a slight twinge of regret, for the past he would now push aside, he hurried to dress for the day, to face what lay in store.

\------------

Jon found himself tucked away, out of sight, out of the way of the flurry of activity, for the bulk of the day. The entire Keep was abuzz, the few Dothraki who’d remained here now joined by endless score more, although Arthur had explained to Jon that the bulk of the Queen’s Dothraki and Unsullied armies would come ashore at the southern tip of the island, to join the Targaryen armies already there.

Still, it seemed to Jon that at least of hundred of each were now milling around, the large, long-haired, bronze-skinned warriors in skins, with their gleaming, curved weapons, eyeing him suspiciously every time he ventured down a corridor.

Then there were the Unsullied, those silent Ghiscari warriors that had been freed by his betrothed. Many wore helmets that hid their faces, stoic and soundless, clad in black leather from head to toe, though their arms remained bared.

Glancing down at himself, in one of Rhaegar’s solars, he almost felt overdressed. He had taken great pains to don his finest, the traditional wear of the Northern court, though now it was stifling, in all these layers.

His sister Sansa had made him a fine fur cloak, just like his father’s, tucked away in his chest when he’d left home, and while it was quite finely crafted, Jon was beginning to sweat under the bulky weight of it. Underneath, he had also taken care, the supple black leathers, bedecked with metal studs, wouldn’t protect him from the many sharp blades all around him, but they would at least make him look the part of a Prince. He’d even layered on his gorget, the one his father had passed down, the one he’d worn in his first battle as leader of the Northern armies. It was a bit battered, a bit dented, but the weight was familiar around his neck, the direwolves in either side snarling in sharp relief.

However, now, as he sipped absently at his wine and nibbled at the bread and cheese that had been left for he and Davos, he slipped a finger between his neck and the metal, wondering if it might choke him.

Jon bit at his blunt thumbnail, distracted, moving from the table laden with food and drink to the carved stone opening of the window, gazing again at the ships now anchored just off shore.

“Where’s that wolf of yours got off to, Your Grace?” Davos’s graveled voice cut through the anxious quiet, and Jon turned to find his advisor watching him with a half-smile. Even Davos had dressed carefully today, had trimmed his greying beard and worn his finest doublet and woolen breeches, all in Stark gray.

Jon blew out a nervous breath, smiling slightly as he remembered a rather small, early morning visitor, who had asked so sweetly if Ghost might be permitted to accompany little Naerys when she took audience with her just-returned mother. It was of no bother to him, of course, but Jon couldn’t hope but help that perhaps his wolf’s company might smooth the path towards his betrothed, just as it had her daughter.

“He is with the Princess, of course.”

Davos let out a coarse chuckle at that; in their three moons here, he’d grown fond of the little girl as well, setting his knife to pieces of driftwood that washed ashore to fashion a menagerie of animals that now littered a shelf in the girl’s chambers. Dragons, wolves, bears, even a handful of fish and squid, each with a tall tale to match, stories that caused the girl’s eyes to widen with wonder.

“A sweet lass, she is.” He raised his brows meaningfully at Jon. “Let us hope you find her mother the same, lest she burn you where you stand for your *incessant* cheek.” He laughed aloud when Jon shot him a mocking glare, raising his hands in pretended surrender. “Oh, now, apologies, Your Grace. Only trying to lighten the mood. Are you nervous?”

Jon sighed loudly, rubbing his temple for a moment, wondering if he might be sick all over the floor with the way his stomach roiled. It was like being back on the Onion Knight’s boat, tossed about at sea, though the floor remained solid stone beneath his shined boots.

“A fair bit, I suppose. Wouldn’t you be? Did you see her dragon this morning?” He made a worried sound in his throat, grimacing at Davos’s clear amusement. “That thing’s massive.”

“To be honest, Prince Jon,” Davos said, rounding the bed and coming to stand before Jon’s dressing table, fiddling with the clasp on a flat, square box, “whenever I chance to see such creatures, I can only breathe a sigh of relief that we’re on their side, eh?”

Jon couldn’t help but agree. He couldn’t imagine the fear those beasts would strike in the hearts of any who thought to face them on the field of battle, but the warrior inside him was very much looking forward to it. He frowned when he saw exactly what Davos was doing, the man’s hands pulling out a thin crown of iron and bronze, something Jon rarely wore; It was the crown of the Northern heir, nothing ostentatious, a rather prickly looking thing that seemed that it might draw blood if grasped the wrong way.

And, Jon was finding, though it did not look too weighty, it was a heavy thing, indeed.

“Must I wear that?” His lips twisted sourly when Davos nodded, and gestured for Jon to seat himself. Gingerly, the older man sat the crown upon Jon’s head, the metal settling against his slicked back curls, nesting in his raven hair. He stared at himself, again, wondering just what it was his father saw in him, that Rhaegar seemed to see, that they would wish to give unto Jon and his betrothed the governance of not just one kingdom, but all of them.

He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea, still, but it had begun to grow on him, in increments. He had spent many nights thinking on what he would do, what changes could be made, to bring about a peace that might be lasting.

And, as Rhaegar had said, if all else failed, they had their dragons.

“I do wish we could get on with things,” Jon muttered, eyeing Davos in the leaded glass. “I’m starting to feel like some helpless maid, locked away in a tower.” He sounded far more sure than he felt, his hands tingling with trepidation, clenching and unclenching.

When a loud knock sounded at the door, he bounded to his feet, nearly knocking over the wooden chair in his haste. Davos held him back a pace with a hand on his chest, then gathered himself, the old sailor walking to the door with his usual rough dignity to see who had been sent for them.

A huge, shaggy body barreled past Davos, and Jon felt a simmering comfort at the feel of his wolf, so close, Ghost licking frantically at his face as though he could feel Jon’s discomfort and was trying to allay his fears, with each swipe of his tongue.

“Prince Jon!” A little voice piped up excitedly from the door, and soon he felt a pair of small arms wrap around his leg, just beside Ghost’s much larger form. “Mama is ready to see you, now!” Jon shoved Ghost down, willing the wolf to settle himself, and cast his eyes down to look at Naerys, who was positively giddy with excitement.

She had been dressed as her station required, this day, in a bright red frock shot through with black embroidery, little dragons crawling around her neck and wrists, silver braids forming a crown of her own atop her head and laced with red ribbons. Jon was sure that the happiness dancing across her wee face was due in large part to her reunion with her lady mother, though his own impending meeting with the woman did not inspire quite that level of joy.

Naerys, as she tended to, seemed to sense such, and she looked behind her, to where Davos stood, along with her burly, newly-arrived Dothraki guards. She waved a hand to Jon, indicting he should lean down, and rose up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Are you very afraid, Prince Jon?”

Jon let out a harsh breath out her hushed question. He nodded, trying to adopt a smile. “A wee bit, I think.”

He felt a hot rush of shame at the admission, but the little girl didn’t judge him for it at all, giving him a tiny grin and taking his hand firmly in her own.

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly, but resolutely. “I shall come with you. Ghost, too.”

With that, the girl began to march them out of the room, Jon in tow, a bemused Davos and a silent Ghost bringing up the end.

The Princess tugged on his hand, as the Dothraki led them through the stone corridors, sparing a glance back every now at then at him, their eyes dark and curious. “I like your crown,” Naerys whispered, pointing her free hand at his head. “It’s very nice.”

Jon bit back a nervous laugh, pressing his lips together tightly for a moment before he answered. “I’m very glad to hear it. Davos made me wear it,” he whispered back emphatically, rolling his eyes.

“I think Mama will like it,” Naerys shot back, squeezing his fingers in reassurance. “It looks very proper.” The child looked around, as if to make sure no one was listening to them, though Jon was certain there were ears all around them. “One day I hope I can have a crown, too.”

Jon’s lips tipped up, and he gave the girl a wink. “I’m sure you will.” He glanced over his shoulder, to where Ghost was panting over Davos’s shoulder. He jerked his head back, his eyes returning to the Princess. “What about Ghost? D’you suppose he should have one, too?”

Naerys squinted, thinking it over, before shaking her head. “He doesn’t like things on his head.” She pursed her little lips, and he admired her attempt to frown before she burst into giggles, as she realized he was teasing. “You are very silly today, Prince Jon.”

Jon just nodded, eyes ahead as they neared the throne room, the large double doors guarded on both sides by both Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers who set their eyes upon him suspiciously. “I shall take that as a compliment, Princess.” When their party came to a halt, the doors parted, just slightly, Arthur slipping out and flashing Jon and quick smile.

His Dornish uncle was dressed just as resplendently today, in the scarlet and onyx proscribed to the Targaryen Kingsguard. Arthur’s own Valyrian steel was strapped to his hip, the sword named Dawn, but Jon had to assume this was merely for show. Longclaw was affixed tight to his hip, as well, the white wolf pommel shining bright against his dark ensemble.

With a low, sweeping bow, Arthur addressed little Naerys. “Princess, the King wishes you to wait here, with your mother’s guards, just for a bit.” He checked his gaze to Jon, then to Davos and Ghost, Jon’s small phalanx of guards standing warily against the far wall. “He wishes that Prince Jon meet with your mother privately, first.”

The girl’s face twisted, as though she were in pain, and Jon could feel the way she tightly gripped his hand, as though she were preparing to refuse to let go. However, Jon could see the merits to a more private introduction. He knelt, dropping a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Will you wait here, with Ghost, Princess? I think perhaps he is a bit more scared than I am, and I think he would like to play ‘seek and find’ with you, while your mother and I tend to our business. Could you help me? Make him feel a bit better?”

He could see it, there, the sudden stubborn clenching of her jaw, as though she knew he was trying to pacify her, as though she knew she was still to be excluded. The lure of Ghost proved too much to resist, however, and she reluctantly released Jon’s hand, twisting to find Ghost’s red eyes watching her closely, the wolf letting out a sad little whine.

“Alright,” she whispered, a note of dejection hanging in the air, but she still gave Jon a little hug ‘round his neck. “Don’t be afraid, Prince Jon. Mama will like you very much. I just know it.”

She gave him one last, toothless, sweet smile, before she walked over to Ghost, burying her hand in the fur at the wolf’s side as he rose to tower above her. Then, methodically, she began to move around the room, taking his wolf to each guard, Dothraki and Unsullied alike, and quickly speaking her foreign tongues. She gestured grandly to Ghost, then to each man before her, and from the slight smiles and interested grunts he was able to discern what she was doing, though he still had little knowledge of the Dothraki and Valyrian languages the girl seemed to speak fluently.

She was making introductions.

Jon’s lips twisted in a grin, and he willed the wolf to behave himself, not missing the chuff Ghost let out at his unspoken request, as though he was deeply offended by the Prince’s insinuation. Jon knew, from the deep well of innate sense he shared with the beast, that he would mind his manners; His fangs and claws would be stayed unless the girl was threatened, and in that instance, woe be unto the one who would try to harm her, for that unlucky soul would be quickly untethered from his body.

Arthur watched the exchange with peculiar intensity, until finally he focused on Jon, alone. “Are you ready, Nephew?” There was a calm reassurance in his words, but it did little to still the quiver of anxiety that stirred Jon’s heart. But he shoved it aside. There was no room for his doubt, here. There was no room for his misgivings, for his worries, not anymore. Jon had made a choice, moons ago, and now it was time to see things through, as a man, a Prince, a future King. He was a boy no more.

“Aye,” Jon replied gruffly. “I’m ready.”

Arthur smiled. “Your guards should remain here. Only you and Davos are required for this audience, if you please.”

Davos exchanged a narrow-eyed look with Jon, waiting until his liege nodded in affirmation before grumping out his own agreement. “If they must.” The old man gave a dip of his chin to the Northern guards. “Stay put, lads.”

Arthur gripped one iron pull, one last set of instructions to give over his shoulder as he made to re-enter the throne room. “Davos, you will announce the Prince, and then, Jon, you will approach.” His uncle gave him one last half-smile. “Good luck,” he whispered, and then he was gone.

\-----------

This solemn chamber, this throne room of the dragons, felt far different than it had when Jon had chanced to journey through it on any other day. This was a day for formality, for ceremony, the ease with which he’d traversed the dark stone floor, inlaid in the center with the sigil of House Targaryen, now absent. The air felt charged, with something he could not quite name.

Davos walked ahead, the distance between the two men and the carved throne at the head of the room seeming leagues away, but when Jon looked up, he couldn’t stop a burst of surprised breath. Rhaegar was not seated upon the stone seat, not this day. He stood to the right, regal, proud, but from here he couldn’t quite pin down the expression on the man’s face. Arthur stood to the left of the throne, hand on the pommel of his sword, standing at alert attention.

In two columns, were those who served Rhaegar’s sister. To his left, Dothraki riders, these larger men in more ornate skins than their counterparts outside, surely those few favored to be his betrothed’s personal guards. To his right, the stern-faced, stoic Unsullied, ever-watchful, and waiting.

Motion near the throne stole his attention away from such inspection, and he risked a small smile when the Lady Missandei stepped forward, down the dias and to the head of the columns of men, clearing her throat lightly and addressing him with a crisp, proper voice.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, The Unburnt, The Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Breaker of Chains, The Mother of Dragons.” Missandei’s commanding tone echoed throughout the chamber, and Jon couldn’t help but find himself a bit humbled, in the face of these many titles. He glanced askance at Davos, who gave a helpless shrug, and a slight grimace.

“Hope you don’t expect me to compete with that, lad.” Stifling a laugh at the man’s words, Jon looked back towards the throne, but though he could see that Daenerys Targaryen had the silver hair of her House, he could not make out her face, not clearly. No doubt, however, she was fair, this mysterious lost daughter of House Targaryen. He shuffled a few steps closer, gesturing to Davos to make his own announcement, trying to peer without success upon the face of this Mother of Dragons.

She remained shrouded in shadows, and he took another step forward.

Davos gave a low cough. “Now comes His Grace Jonnel, of House Stark. The Crown Prince of the North, the White Wolf,” his watery eyes shot to Jon apologetically, and he shrugged to the room at large, “and that’s about it, I’m afraid. With respect, it’s rather hard to follow such an intimidating list of titles.”

The Onion Knight’s gruff words earned a few chuckles from Rhaegar and Arthur, from what Jon could tell, but still, no response from the woman who sat upon the throne. Missandei, however, offered Jon a quick quirk of her lips, before ascending the short stairs, taking a place beside Arthur as silence fell again.

Neither moved, and Jon finally willed his booted feet into action, shafts of light from the narrow cut windows that lined the room washing across his face as he came to stand upon the three-headed dragon laid into the stone floor. He gave a courteous, deep bow, his cloak of fur brushing against the floor at the action.

He wished she would move, or speak, give him some sort of idea as to what she was like, other than her quiet focus and silver hair.

“Your Grace,” he said respectfully, as he straightened. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, at last.” He held his breath, as, instead of providing a verbal response, she rose as well.

One step, then another, and he began his inspection, as she made a wordless descent down the stairs.

She wore calfskin boots, laced tightly over her calves, as black as her dragon, and battleworn, if he was not mistaken. There came a thrill in his gut, that base part of him that loved no task more than swinging his steel telling him that, if nothing else, perhaps they could find common ground in the makings of war.

His eyes climbed higher, surprised that she wore neither gown nor proper leathers. It was a strange blending of the two, perhaps some concession necessary for the riding of dragons. Daenerys Targaryen wore what looked like woolen trousers, he guessed, as she came ever closer. They were a dark, almost midnight blue, giving way to a blue overcoat that dipped lower in the back, almost a skirt, the material swishing as she took each slow, purposeful step.

A thick silver chain climbed from her waist, between the swells of her breasts, to affix to her shoulder, dragons snarling at him as he examined her. He swallowed heavily, for while he had known no love since the one he lost, he could not deny the stir of desire as her petite, decidedly feminine form became known to him. Daenerys Targaryen stopped, several feet away, and it was not until he spoke that he brought his gaze higher.

“You have made quite an impression on my daughter, Prince Jonnel.” Her husky voice was even, measured, and he could not discern whether she was praising him or chiding him.

Then, she took one more step, a shaft of light illuminating her face, and he was lost.

It was not the fine, delicate features, the noble arch of her brow, the refined turn of her nose. It was not the slight blush that colored her cheek, nor the firm set of her lush, rosy lips, that stole his breath.

And stolen it was, as Jon let out a strangled gasp, his gray eyes finally meeting hers.

It was her eyes, that did him in. Not Targaryen purple, to be sure. No, no.

These were singular eyes.

These were eyes he had seen, of such true and pure beauty that he felt himself transported back in time; He could’ve sworn the whooshing rush of blood in his ears was the pounding of the surf upon a Lyseni shore, would have gone to his grave that he could taste the salt in the air, the hint of rum on his tongue, the feel of warm, firm, tanned flesh beneath his questing hands.

She was older, yes, but so was he.

She was harder, perhaps, but again, he was as well.

But before him, there could be no doubt, stood a ghost.

“Dany,” he whispered, shock buffeting him like a sea wind, and he swayed on his feet as he stared at her.

At the name, she took a step back, those cerulean blue eyes widening, her brow wrinkling in her own healthy measure of surprise. And then, she came closer, more hesitant that before. “What did you say?”

“Dany,” he repeated, his voice stronger now, but his throat threatening to close on him completely as he struggled to draw breath. It was an impossibility, that it was her, that she was here, before him. His racing mind replayed that awful day, surrounded in ash and smoke and heat, her ring searing into his palm and scarring the flesh there. He had *seen* the destruction, had pulled that last piece of her from the wreckage, and though his mind told him that this was not her, not here, not now, his heart knew the truth. “Dany, is that you? It can’t be, Gods help me.” His breath seized in his chest, a sharp pain that stitched his side.

Daenerys Targaryen *was* Dany.

All he could do was focus on the basic requirements of his body, frozen in place, watching the play of emotions as they flitted across her face, struggling to let his chest expand and fall before the moment consumed him.

“Who—” She stammered as she took another step, close enough now for him to see those familiar thick, sooty lashes, the fullness of her lower lip, the burning of his own lips as they remembered what it was like, to touch her, to taste her. His hands clenched as she turned to look at Rhaegar, who stood, still, beside the throne. “What is this?”

“Begging your pardon, sister,” Rhaegar drawled, and Jon was not so oblivious that he missed the amusement in the man’s voice, “but I do believe you and your intended have met before.”

Dany sucked in a quick breath, turning to face him again, now approaching so closely that there was a mere foot of space between them. He wondered, agonizingly, if she had forgotten him, if time and the world had torn away those lovely memories they had made, but then she grabbed his face, firmly, between both hands.

She pulled his face closer, their noses nearly brushing, and stared into his eyes with dawning comprehension. And then it came, that flickering spark, that grew, quickly, even as her face began to crumple. “Jon,” she whispered brokenly, shocked, her voice wavering. “Jon Snow?”

Her eyes begged for it to be true, for it to be him, and he understood precisely how she felt. Jon let his hands ghost atop hers, where her fingers pressed against his bearded jaw. “Aye,” he said, assuredly, and she began to cry, quietly, even as she broke into a beautiful, beaming smile. “Though I reckon I look a bit different than the last time you saw me, eh, Dany?” He caught her fingers, the intimate, remembered slide of his against hers only feeding the hot flare of recognition in the pit of his stomach. He kept her hand against the hair on his face.

"This is new," she whispered, nodding just barely, her tightly braided hair sliding across her back, "but I know who you are. I know your eyes, Jon Snow." Her chin trembled, her lips almost white as she forced them together, and then there was nothing to do but take her in his arms, to all the hells with propriety and formalities.

He had no use for them, anymore. Not with her. And as his arms wrapped around her, as she began to sob against his leather clad chest, he felt the last of his doubts disappear. He had no clue how it had come to be, that she was here. Those things were not his concern. Because in his arms he held her once more, his heart swelling and set aflame, as though it might burst right then and there. Peace swept over him, his jangled nerves calming and smoothing and settling, and for a bright, shining moment, all was right in the world.

“Dany,” he whispered against her air, between kisses pressed against those silver stands. “Dany, Dany, Dany.” He closed his eyes, losing himself in the feel of her, caught in the undertow of everything he’d fought so hard to pack away, everything he’d urged himself to forget, so that he might let her go, once and for all. His own eyes blurred with tears, and though he tried to fight it, a rough sob escaped as he pulled her closer. The world seemed to shift on it's very axis, under his booted feet, shifting and threatening to bring him to his knees. It couldn't be her, but it was.

Now, holding her captive in his tight embrace, he knew. It was her, his heart told him, rejoicing, his blood pumping, his heart hammering, his arms tightening as though he had to bring her into him, trap her against him so that she could not escape. If he held her close enough, he knew, then she would stay.

“It can’t be you,” she moaned into his chest, echoing his own thoughts, her hands dropping to grab blindly at his shoulders. Her own shook as she went on and on, her head shaking and voice breaking as she wept. “He said you were dead, it can’t be you, how can you be here?” He could hear her agony, and he held her more tightly still, secretly gladdened that it was not just he who was completely shaken by their current circumstances. He didn't know what she meant, not really, but he understood the desperation in her voice, the underlying plea that begged for him to be who she wished he was, though she couldn't comprehend that it could be true. He understood completely.

“I thought I lost you,” he answered quietly, so that only she might here. “Oh, Dany,” he groaned into her hair, “I thought you were gone forever.” He spoke nothing but the truths he had long ago accepted, his mind still reeling and trying to catch up with the truth now before him. She was not lost. She was here, in his arms, tears leaking down his black leathers, and she was very, very real. His cheeks were damp, as well, and he didn't care who saw, just then. Let them think whatever they wanted.

She sniffed against him, and finally pulled back, and all Jon wanted to do was kiss her, soundly, ‘til there was nothing but just them. He was stopped, though, by Davos, who stood nearby, watching in wonder.

“I do hope those are happy tears, Your Grace. I know he’s a bit rough around the edges, but I think you’ll find he has great potential, s’far as husbands go.” Dany let out a heady burst of laughter, her eyes never straying from Jon’s face.

She freed one hand to stroke along his jaw, lovingly, and he had to bite at his lip at the sensation, to stop himself from sweeping her into his arms and spiriting her away to someplace more private. “Of that, I have no doubt, my Lord.” Her slim hand was so warm, against his face, and for as lost as he had felt, as dead as he’d feared his heart was, inside his chest, in this moment, he was reborn.

“I might be terrible at it,” he jested quietly, and she wrinkled her nose at him, her tears drying as she indulged in a sweet smile meant only for him.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered forcefully. “You’re always wrong on those counts, aren’t you?” His mind was thousands of miles and years away, to the bank of a pool, to the dark of a shack, desire and elation coursing through him in equal measure.

He grinned, thumbing away the wet stains on her cheeks. “I suppose that remains to be seen.” He glanced up, to find every eye in the room upon them, and he felt his cheeks heat. He ducked his head, feeling a bit vulnerable then, as Rhaegar finally descended, flanked by Arthur and Missandei.

“I hate to interrupt such a joyful reunion,” he told the pair, and Jon could hear that he meant it, the regret in his voice as he addressed them, “but I fear there is much to be done, and very little time in which to work it all out, now.” He swept a hand to the side of the room, to where his council chamber sat in waiting. “Shall we begin?”

His gut clenched, but he mustered a serious expression, nodding his assent, even as his eyes hungered for just one more moment spent staring at Dany’s enchanting face, just a few spare heartbeats in which to lose himself again in her presence.

“Of course,” Dany said, responding for them both. To Jon, she directed one last, quiet statement. “We shall speak later, Jon. Alone.” With a meaningful look she took his hand, unwilling to be parted from him completely, and it was in that manner they followed the Dragon King out of the room. He was not sure how he was meant to focus on anything but her, in truth, unclear on how best to shake himself from the stupor he now found himself in. He was drunk on the sight of her, worried he might stagger on his feet; Every step he took, with her at his side, was one in which he though his legs might wobble and collapse out from under him.

Because she was HERE.

Dany was here, with him.

What was there to fear, anymore? When they were together? He wished desperately that they could be alone, that he could learn the hows and whys of why she still drew breath, but it seemed that would have to wait.

That didn't matter, either. He could wait. He could endure anything, he thought, letting his index finger stroke along hers, basking in the way she smiled at him, like the warm Lyseni sun shining on his face, after so long in the dark. He could endure anything so long as they were together.

Together, at last.

And this time, Jon knew, he was never letting her go.


	5. Reunification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A newly-reunited Jon and Dany continue to become more...closely acquainted, and Jon finally learns another truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! Another day, another chapter. Rhaegar stays at his Drama King messiness, at least a little bit longer :)
> 
> Hope everyone is faring well, I'm plugging away at some other things to keep you fed when this story comes to a close, so worry not! Meanwhile, just found out my kiddos are out of school 'til April 3rd so looks like I'm now a part time Kindergarten teacher, yikes!

Torture.

Exquisite, delicious, mind-numbing torture.

That is what it was, he thought, to spend an entire afternoon with Dany, in this imposing Keep, surrounded by people. All he craved was time alone, so that he could assuage the creeping doubt in his gut that any of this was happening, in truth.

This setting was not one in which they’d ever seen each other, cloistered in Rhaegar’s council chambers, bent low over his Painted Table, arguing the merits of strategic attack. They stood, together, fingers laced together, neither will to let go. This had earned a few strange looks, to be sure, but after the first hour Jon had stopped caring.

He had known the younger, wilder version of her; In Lys, she had been bold, and reckless, full of life, willing to capture every moment and milk every drop of satisfaction from it, as though it might be her last. In some ways, she was much the same. Her suggestions to end the House Lannister, to wipe it from the map and from the annals of history, were bold, most certainly. She had a keen military mind, he found, and he wondered if she had always been as such, or if the atrocities she had faced across the Narrow Sea, after he had thought her lost together, had borne that fruit in her.

However, she was not the same, not precisely. She had grown, and changed, just as he had, and coupled with her ruthless push was a streak of compromise. He had led campaigns himself, not on dragonback, of course, but this type of warfare, army against army, was an area in which he had experience, as well. When he suggested more devious means of attack, of a certain level of trickery, in which they might minimize civilian casualties, she was all too willing to hear him out. It struck him, by their third hour of planning, that they worked rather well together, all things considered.

Rhaegar seemed to agree, rare smiles coming all too quickly now, as he watched the pair move pieces about the table, and even Jon could sense what rose between them all in that small room. It was, in the simplest terms he could imagine, an overwhelming sense of rightness.

Even her men, Dothraki and Unsullied alike, seemed to be more curious than suspicious of him now, their gazes falling to the joined hands between the two and meeting his with a reluctant consideration.

But still, despite the excitement that buzzed through him as they worked through the plans for this final assault, he couldn’t shake the notion that being this close, so near to her he could feel the warmth of her body, could hear the occasional exhalation of breath, was near unbearable torture.

But it was a torture he gloried in, looking at her every chance he could, only to find her eyes trained on him, as well. He knew why, of course. He knew, in his heart, that it must be the same for her.

He was afraid if he looked away too long, if he were to release her hand from his grasp, that she might disappear, again. It was a pain he couldn’t bear, and so he clung to her, and she to him, their shared looks saying what lips could not, at least not before such an audience.

He hoped that, by nightfall, they might find a chance to steal away. He wanted to know everything, even the things that kept him at a low-level state of anger, a fire in his heart that grew each time he tried to reconcile, in his mind, the stories he had heard of Daenerys Targaryen and all she had suffered, with the woman by his side.

Jon hated it, his jaw occasionally clenching and teeth grinding together as he remembered every hurt and betrayal that had befallen her. He was filled with a rage that he mused might rival the might of her dragon’s, when he considered what he would do to all who had ever dared harm her.

Jon was done with any notion of mercy, for the Lannisters, or any other who might stand against them, now.

He had rid himself of the last of his qualms, as to what would come next, ruling a united Westeros under one banner, the moment he’d looked in her eyes, in that throne room. That power was the ultimate sort, and he did not seek it to rule over the realms of men. He sought it, with a surety that made him consider every plan, no matter how brutal, because of what it would afford him.

He had no dragons, but if he were King, he could protect them all. They could protect everyone who could not protect themselves, together.

If he were King, and she his Queen, he would never let her be harmed again.

And if any dared, he knew, with startling clarity, he would tear these lands apart at their very seems to bring about true justice, Northern justice. He would paint these lands red with the blood of their enemies, if they chose to attempt such, and he would do it with a song in his heart.

Because Jon would not, could not, lose her again.

Quiet had fallen, with Rhaegar, Davos and Athur engaging in a hushed conversation to the side about how best to ferry supplies to the Riverrlands, where the Northern armies would garrison, and he took the opportunity to nudge Dany with his shoulder, sharing a small indulgent smile that she mirrored at the contact.

“I like your beard,” she whispered, glancing about before sneaking a hand up to stroke along his jaw. “Very dignified,” she said, her eyes twinkling as he puffed up his chest a bit.

“You think so?” He narrowed his eyes at her playfully, leaning his head closer. “You don’t want me to shave it all off, then?”

She kissed her teeth, sucking in a breath through them, her head tipping as she took his measure. “No,” she finally whispered, “Though I must say, I almost didn’t recognize you, before.” Her gaze travelled his entire form, then, heat flaring between them as she studied him with decidedly improper intent. “You’ve got,” she nibbled at her lip in a manner that made him want to take her, right there on that blasted table, “bigger.”

He snickered, quietly. “Gods, I should hope so. I was barely more than a boy, when you last saw me.”

Dany smiled demurely, a move at odds with the growing hunger in her eyes, and licked her lips. “Forgive me, Jon,” she murmured, “but I daresay you were certainly man enough then to be getting on with.” He did not miss her intent, his mind touching all too briefly on the hot press of her skin against his, his mouth everywhere, his hands everywhere, nothing existing but what pleasure they could find in each other.

Jon let out a shaky breath, a wave of desire threatening to knock his knees out from under him. “It’s very wicked, to tease me so, when I can do nothing about it, Dany.” He kept his voice quiet, and low, but made no effort to hide the desire that was building inside him, could see no reason to. Once, there had been such blunt, effortless honesty between them, save for that one larger truth, that shared lie of who they really were. It hadn’t mattered, back then. He had loved her for who she was, the truth of her, not the Daenerys Targaryen who stood before him now, royalty in her own right, the woman who’d brought back the dragons and commanded massive armies.

He had loved the girl at the heart of her, with silver windswept hair and piercing blue-green eyes, who’d made him feel free, who had awakened a part of him he’d never known existed, before her.

And though they had changed, undoubtably, he hoped that had not died away, in the years that now lay between then and now.

She squeezed his hand, and gave him the most lascivious look he’d ever received. “I tease you not,” she breathed, coming ever closer, “though I shall leave the assessment of my wickedness solely to your judgement, Your Grace.” She punctuated the words with a sound nip to his earlobe, then drew back, innocent as a babe, to look about the room.

Jon shifted on his feet, thankful his gambeson shielded his rapidly burgeoning want from the other eyes in the room, giving Dany a teasing glare. “Your Grace, is it? I think Jon will work just fine, thank you. I hardly think there’s much room left for formalities between us now, is there?”

Dany stifled a laugh with her hand, realizing, as he did, that they had drawn everyone’s attention.

Rhaegar rapped a knuckle on the table. “I think we can disband to prepare for dinner.” He glanced out the window over his shoulder, noting the sun had begun it’s descent, afternoon rapidly giving way to evening. “Sister, will you stay? I would speak with you privately.”

With an agonized, regretful look, Dany let go of Jon’s hand, her gaze promising that touch would not be the last. “Of course.” It was a nearly physical pain, the loss of their fingers tangled together, and he could see it was much the same for her, in the way she seemed rather deflated, bereft without his touch.

Jon dipped his chin towards her, never once looking away, praying to any gods that might hear him that this had not all been some wild, fantastical dream. “I shall see you at dinner, then, Daenerys.” He couldn’t help himself, a foolish fancy stirring his heart, and he took her slim hand one last time, flipping it over in his grasp at the last moment to press a gentle kiss to her palm. A lover’s kiss, one that made a pretty blush flush her cheeks.

Collecting Davos, and exiting quickly, Jon set a course for his rooms, hoping he could collect his wayward thoughts and calm the tempest inside him before they met again.

“Will you be telling me what all that was about, Prince Jon?” The sailor’s grizzled voice over his shoulder, along with his put-upon question, made Jon chuckle.

“Aye, Ser Davos. I’ll explain everything, lest you get carried away.” No doubt his future Hand had set his mind into a tizzy, their introduction to Jon’s betrothed going not at all as planned. He checked his eyes towards the windows that lined the corridor, hoping he had enough time to explain it all before he was back before her again, his sweet silver Dany.

\----------

Jon wasn’t entirely sure what he expected this dinner to be like. A feast, he had assumed, to welcome the returned Mother of Dragons, certainly a more lavish affair than his own somewhat more subdued welcome.

He dressed with care once more, while trying his best to set Davos straight on precisely what and who Daenerys was to him, why he had such familiarity with her. Davos had never seen her, so far as he knew, in his visits to the young Prince in Lys, but he had certainly been there that awful night, days after Dany had bid him a final farewell. Davos had seen him kneeling in the ashes, Dany’s ring burning a permanent scar into his flesh, had seized him under the arms and hauled him from the place, finally, after hours of his broken weeping, of his awful, soul-wrenching grief.

He had been there for the aftermath, for the sorrow, but he had not seen the joy.

And the man sat, open-mouthed and for once, blissfully at a loss for words, when Jon had finished his somewhat abridged tale.

“But, Jon…,” he spluttered, shaking his head in disbelief, when he’d finally regained his voice, “I don’t understand how this can be? I saw that wreckage, saw you pull that ring from the embers. She couldn’t have survived that.”

Jon merely shrugged, knowing there were some answers only she could give him, willing, in the face of this most wonderous revelation, to spare some patience in learning them. He had bathed and trimmed his beard, donning fewer layers than he had for his formal audience, dressing in just a fine, steel gray tunic and black gambeson, strapping Longclaw to his waist and sparing a glance for the state of his more comfortable boots before he looked to the Onion Knight. “I don’t know, Davos,” he answered honestly. “I can only be glad she did, that she is here, now.”

Davos scratched at his graying beard. “And the girl?”

His brow furrowed. “Naerys?” Jon frowned. “What of her? I shall still be her Lord Father, once Dany and I are wed. What change should this news make?” If anything, Jon found himself yet more eager to be father to the small girl, his fondness for her doubling now that he could pin down the source of her willfully endearing stubbornness, the streak of wildness that had so reminded him of Arya, before.

Now, he could see it clearly, that this girl was her mother’s daughter in many ways, and his desire to see her protected and cared for, to shield her from whatever ills the world might fling her way, had only strengthened in its’ resolve.

There was a curious look in the old man’s eye, sharp and knowing, and Jon couldn’t help but find it a bit discomfiting. “Perhaps it’s nothing,” Davos finally said, but his countenance seemed to suggest the exact opposite.

Jon had no chance to press him, however, a knock sounding at the door that startled them both, sending Davos scurrying to the door to fling it open.

It was Missandei, with Ghost in tow, and while the wolf had not taken to the Lady with the same fervor he had her charge, he was waiting amiably enough, tail brushing the floor when Jon came into view. “I’ve been sent to bring you to the feast, Your Grace, Ser Davos.” She nodded to them both, in turn, and moved to the side, to allow them to exit Jon’s chambers.

As they walked, she took up pace at Jon’s side, a warmness to her smile that had been fairly rare, in his time on Dragonstone.

“My Lady tells me many wonderful tales of you, Your Grace.” Jon felt himself flush a bit, the collar of his tunic growing a bit tight as he wondered exactly what Dany had shared with this woman, and Missandei grinned at him, clasping a hand around his forearm as they made their way to the hall. “I have seen your kindness, of course, with Naerys, but I am most pleased that you have been reunited with Her Grace once more.” She squeezed at his arm. “This is a most blessed day, I think.”

Jon quirked his lips at her, smiling in turn. “Aye,” he nodded, “It is indeed, for us all.”

Missandei leaned in close. “She asks that you come to her tonight, in her chambers. I will fetch you, show you the way, but she instructs only to come if you wish to. She says,” the woman paused, “that she wishes to ask you some personal questions.”

Jon tried to stifle his bright laugh, but still it escaped, earning a look back from Davos, where he walked just ahead. He desperately fought to tamp down his almost delirious excitement, for he knew those words with aching familiarity, knew precisely what it was his wicked Dany intended him to take from such statement. “I most certainly wish to. I will await you later, then.”

They were nearing the place where they would dine, and now Missandei pulled away, speaking with a great measure of amusement as they passed line after line of Unsullied who stood guarding the halls. “The Princess Naerys has been regaling Her Grace with tales of your shared exploits, Prince Jon. She has rather insisted that she show her mother the fruits of her training, on the morrow. Shall I make sure preparations are made?”

This pleased Jon, a warmth in his heart that was made clear by the willing chuff of Ghost, just behind him. “Naturally. We must show Her Grace the warrior her daughter has become.”

Rounding one final corner, Jon was met by a sight that set loose a song in his heart. There, flanked by her large Dothraki men, stood Daenerys, Naerys standing by her side, the latter looking to and fro as though she searched for something.

When the girl saw Jon, it was clear what she’d been searching for, and she let loose a less than dignified squeal, clapping her hands together and sprinting towards Jon before any could stop her.

“Prince Jon!” Her bubbly excitement was contagious, and Jon chuckled as she flung herself at his leg, wrapping her arms ‘round his waist and hugging him tightly before she stepped back. “Mama said we can go to the training yard in the morning. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Jon smiled broadly, tugging at a silver curl that trailed over the girl’s shoulder and crouching. “Aye, it is.” He squinted, looking up at the ceiling as though he were deep in thought, sparing a wink in Dany’s direction where she stood, quietly watching the pair. “What should we start with, do you think?”

“Hmmm.” The girl’s small brow furrowed, giving the question serious consideration. “The bow, I think,” she finally proclaimed, “but I want to show her how I can fight with a sword, as well.” She giggled when Jon cuffed a hand under her chin, bouncing on her heels, absently reaching out to pet Ghost when he snuck around Jon’s side to slide against the girl’s small frame.

“Oh, we shall,” Jon said, adopting a playful warning as he stood, “but you’d best keep that shield up or I’ll ring your bell, little lass.” He absorbed the girl’s little shove, grinning at her pushed-out jaw, at the way she crossed her arms and glared at his warning.

“That was just the first few times, Prince Jon,” she grumbled. “I’m much better now.”

He looked at Dany again, hoping the genial friendship he’d fostered between her daughter and himself would be well received, surprised to find her completely expressionless, save for the suspicious wetness gathering in her eyes. Together, he and Naerys joined her, and he ducked his head bashfully, ready to apologize if he had overstepped in his training of the girl.

But he was given no opportunity, for before he could let even one word fall she had stepped to him, their chests brushing, the fine black silk gown she wore tonight teasing his every sense as she stole a quick, forceful kiss. When she withdrew, he could see, up close, the glassiness of her eyes, the way she seemed to tremble against him. He could not make sense of it, but at the very least, he was relieved that she was not cross with him, if her fervent kiss was any indication.

She took his hand, and stepped back, chin tipped up regally, and gave a nod to the men at the door, extending her other hand for Naerys to take.

“We enter together,” she finally said, on an exhale, a weightiness to her voice that puzzled him further. Naerys, for her part, seemed oblivious, hiding a giggle behind her hand at the sight of her mother kissing him, Jon supposed. He spared her from any further questions, wouldn’t push her now to ask what troubled her, instead curling his arm up and tucking her hand into the crook, nodding smartly.

“As you wish, Your Grace.” With Naerys grinning madly at him from her mother’s side, and a quick, fleeting smile from Dany, he patted his free hand against hers, where it lay against his arm, realizing that there was something quite nice, about this arrangement, the three of them together, united.

They felt, Jon thought whimsically to himself, like a little family.

It was a feeling he thought he could get used to.

\-----------

Jon found himself seated between Rhaegar and Dany, Naerys still pouting well into their second course that she was not situated closer to Jon, and taking every opportunity to squirm around in her seat and call out to him, craning her neck to catch his eye as she pushed around the roasted vegetables on her plate.

He couldn’t complain, really, but he knew the girl had grown used to conversing with him while they dined, so he did his best to keep engaged with her when he could, though Dany rolled her eyes several times and urged her daughter to settle in her seat and eat.

“Prince Jon,” she said, leaning forward to look at him. “Watch!” She took a big bite of a vegetable, grimacing even as she chewed, making a show of swallowing and opening her mouth to show him she’d downed the food, though he knew she disliked them. The moment he grinned she turned to her mother, growing solemn. “Mama,” she said, “did you see me eat my vegetables?”

“I think everyone saw you, sweetling. Perhaps we can manage not to demonstrate this newfound love of things between every bite, eh?” Dany’s hair was styled much like Naerys’s was, braided about her crown, the length of it loose and flowing in curls that cascaded down her back. He watched the play of light upon one curl in particular, perched atop her silk-clad shoulder, when Dany was suddenly twisting to face him. She laughed, silently, so that the girl wouldn’t see, so as not to encourage her rather uncouth behavior, Jon thought.

Naerys went on, clueless as to her mother’s amusement at her antics. “Prince Jon says that if I want to be a warrior I must eat all my dinner, even the bits I don’t like.”

Dany made a sound of amusement in her throat, giving him an appreciative look and a nod before she faced Naerys again. “And he’s quite right. Let us see your strong sword arm, then, hmmm?” She reached as Naerys extended her arm, exclaiming as she felt along the girl’s bicep, to the little girl’s endless pleasure. “My word, you have grown quite fierce since I have been gone, haven’t you?”

The little Princess wiggled in her seat, glowing at her mother’s praise, and took another large bite. “I will show you tomorrow, Mama. Prince Jon says I must practice very hard if I want to be the best in all the realms.”

Jon could only see Dany’s profile now, as her fork scraped against her own plate, but he was happy to see a warm smile spreading on the lips he knew only second to his own. “Prince Jon seems to be filled to the brim with helpful advice.” Another look was granted him then, cerulean eyes twinkling with amusement, searching his as she took a bite. She raised a brow, questioning, and he laid his palm atop her hand, where it rested beside her goblet on the table.

“I only, and ever, wish to be of service, Your Grace,” he whispered quietly, then raised her hand to his lips to press a much more decorous, relatively chaste kiss to the back of her hand.

Something devious flared to life, in those blue-green depths, and she delicately pulled her hand free, taking a sip of her wine before resting the hand he’d held upon her lap. Naerys chattered on in fits and starts, and Jon saw her sneaking a morsel back to Ghost, who sat on his haunches behind her chair, as though he meant to stand guard over the girl. Jon knew, however, that he was merely awaiting the treats she would toss his way, not sharing the girl’s distaste for the food on her plate.

He didn’t know if Dany saw, and made no move to call her attention to it. She’d notice, soon enough, after a few shared meals. He smiled to himself, as the next round of food was served, a bite hovering just before his parted lips, when he felt it.

A warm hand came to rest upon his thigh, and he froze, breath stalling in his chest, turning his head just barely to peek at Dany from the corner of his eyes. With a hissing breath, he shoved the bite into his mouth, chewing without tasting at all, his entire being focused on the way she began to slowly slide her palm up his leathers. “Gods, Dany,” he muttered, chuckling nervously, pulse beginning to race. “Are you testing my resolve? Hmmm?” He clucked his tongue, trying to chide her, even as he shifted in his seat, wishing she’d go higher still, to where his cock stirred against his breeches. “For I can assure you I am running dangerously low.”

She looked about for a second, satisfied no one was watching them closely, then brought her lips to just brush against his ear. “Will you come to me later, Sweet Jon?” The tentative look that flitted across her face, the hint of shyness in her voice, nearly did him in, as if the matter were even truly a question at all.

“Oh, aye,” he answered. He shifted again, hoping she would continue her trek, praying she would stop, before he forgot himself completely and ordered everyone from the room so that he might feast upon her as he did their meal. Her remembered curves, the swell of her full breasts against the tight bodice of her gown, the flare of her hips as he’d walked beside her earlier, had only fueled the flames of his desire, and it was not a jest to declare that the deep well of willpower that he prided himself on was very nearly depleted. “Seems to me it is the least I can do, as best I recall it was you who came to me, before.”

Both brows raised now, and Dany gave him a long, lingering look that ended at the surface of the table, where her fingers traced light circles against his inner thigh, driving him near madness. “How very chivalrous of you.” She glanced ahead, to where the gathered Dothraki let out a raucous noise, smiling politely, her lips barely moving when she spoke again. “I do hope you have rid yourself of such chivalrous intent when you seek me out later.”

She punctuated her heated remark by trailing her finger up his stiff length, where it strained against the fabric of his pants, and he stifled his gasp by quickly raising his goblet to his lips. He shook his head at her, laughing silently when she winked at him, then turned to chat once more with her daughter, Ghost occasionally sneaking his head between the pair of silver heads to help himself to a potato or a piece of boar, held aloft for him in the little girl’s fingers.

Jon took the opportunity to calm the lusty beast that had roared to life inside him, willing himself to dig deep, to find some spare patience, to contain himself for just a bit longer.

He turned to his left, surprised to find Rhaegar staring at him, with more than a little merriment. “Are you enjoying the feast, Jon?” He sounded rather bland, as though he were merely making polite conversation, but Jon didn’t miss the way he continued to steal little peeks at Dany and Naerys, a bit further down the table.

Jon leaned on his elbow, fully facing the Dragon King now. “You knew,” he said lowly, realization washing over him as he saw the way Rhaegar looked between them all. “You knew that was her ring, when I showed it to you, didn’t you?”

Rhaegar hesitated, then wiped neatly at his lips with his linen napkin. “I had a very strong suspicion. ‘Tis true, I knew that ring the moment I saw it, but I couldn’t be sure until Daenerys returned. You could’ve happened upon it anywhere, the love you swore you lost might’ve obtained it from another,” he paused, looking to his near empty plate. “I could not dare speak what I suspected aloud until she came, you understand. However,” he continued, “I will admit that I knew that ring on sight. Before it belonged to my sweet sister, it was my mother’s.” A sad smile graced Rhaegar’s face, the most common one he wore. “I hoped I was right, if it’s any consolation. For you, and for her,” he said, with a nod to the back of Dany’s head, as she was still in deep conversation with little Naerys. “I’m sure this must be a shock, though. Are you faring well, in the face of all this?”

At the very real concern in the other man’s voice, Jon slumped back in his chair, slightly, searching himself. “Aye,” he said. “Though to be honest, I am not quite sure I believe it’s real. It is like a wonderful dream, one I pray I will not awaken from, but I am terrified I will.”

Rhaegar smiled thinly. “After so many seasons of misery, it must be difficult, I think, to accept glad tidings when they come. But heed my words, Jon Stark.” He lowered his voice, fingers drumming on the table, fidgeting. “We face a great war, now, and there is no guarantee of tomorrow, no time to be wasted dwelling in the past. You must take what happiness you can, seize it with both hands, and hold tight to it, lest it slip away.”

Jon knew what drove the man’s words, knew the deep chasm of pain that hung around Rhaegar’s shoulder like a mantle of grief, and could do little more than swallow heavily and nod solemnly. The King’s amethyst eyes flicked away, to Jon’s side, and turning his head, the Northern Prince found Dany watching them both intently.

“Brother,” she said, with a hint of irritation. “What has you looking so forlorn?” Something unspoken passed between the two, a fissure of slight rancor that had Jon puzzled, wondering just what had taken place between the two after Jon had left the council chamber.

“Nothing, Sister. Nothing of concern. I was merely giving my soon-to-be goodbrother a piece of advice, in the wars to come.” Rhaegar took a deliberate, slow sip of his wine, gazing out at the crowded hall. “I do hope you will heed my advice of earlier as well, Daenerys. The sooner the better, I should think. For all involved.”

Dany stood suddenly, chair scraping loudly against the stone at the movement, and fixed her brother with a fierce glare. “It will be handled, as I promised. And I will remind you,” she said warningly, real ire in her eyes now, “of your own promise, not to meddle in such affairs.”

Rhaegar blinked, calm and collected, and took another sip of wine. “I will keep my word.”

Jon looked between the two, flummoxed as to what was transpiring before him, wondering if he had been the cause of it somehow. Dany’s hand came to light upon his shoulder, her eyes much kinder as she looked down at him. “I shall see Naerys to bed, if you will excuse me.” Her fingers dug in against his shoulder, and she held his eyes for a bit longer, promise lingering in hers. “Brother,” she acknowledged, in colder, but cordial tone.

Naerys, realizing what was happening, that she was about to be swept away, climbed from her own chair, scrambling past her mother with wide eyes, hands clasped together as she came to stand before Jon. “Prince Jon, may I have Ghost come with me? What if I have a bad dream? And I get afraid?”

He saw Dany begin to protest, surely thinking this would be some impossible question to ask of Jon, but he held up a hand to her, stilling her words as he looked down at Naerys. “Of course, you may. But you must promise, that if *he* has a bad dream, you will give him many pets until he settles down, yes? Even wolves can have bad dreams.”

“Ohhh.” Naerys looked down, then over to Ghost, who looked rather silly, his tongue lolling out as he panted and waited expectantly. “I will do my very best.”

“I know,” Jon answered, gravely. “I would expect nothing less from you, Princess. Now, you must get some rest, so that we may have a good showing for your mother in the morning.”

She gave him no answer, just a bright smile and a fierce hug around his neck, and then she obediently moved to Dany’s side, taking her mother’s hand. “Mama, you must read us a story, for that is Ghost’s very favorite thing.”

He was surprised to hear a slight sniffle from Dany, her eyes a bit glassy again. But she pasted on a comely, indulgent smile, all the same, leaving Jon to wonder what had affected her so. “Well, we cannot disappoint Ghost, can we?”

She gave Jon one last, indecipherable look, then the pair left, Missandei trailing behind, in swirl of silk and white fur.

Rhaegar watched them leave as well, he saw, and in the ensuing silence Jon found himself looking down the length of the table to the Dragon King’s left, searching for his Uncle’s face in the mass of bodies.

“Where has Ser Arthur escaped to? Is he well?” It wasn’t like the man, to miss a meal, usually working up a mighty appetite with Jon in the training yards, and Jon’s brow creased as he began to worry.

Dany’s brother was non-plussed, raising a dismissive hand. “Your Uncle is fine, Jon, not to worry. He received news this day that came as a bit of a shock, that is all. He requested time to gather his wits, as it were.” He gave Jon a speculative look, before his gaze darted around the room. “I’m sure all will reveal itself in due time.” Finally, the man smiled again, as a rich desert was served, lemon cakes by the look of it, and he waved his fingers to the plate set before Jon. “In the meantime, do try the lemon cakes, would you?”

\----------

Jon was alone, in his rooms, anxiously pacing, his favored way to pass the time. Around and around, his layers stripped further, to just his tunic and trousers, candles guttering in their silver holders as he toyed with the ring in his hand.

He’d fished it from his trunk the moment he’d escaped the dining hall, bidding Davos a rather curt good evening, later wishing he’d asked the man to stay, to help him pass the time.

The darkened sky and rising moon told him the hour grew late, but he could not begrudge Dany some private time with her wee daughter, not after so long apart. His own desires could wait, of course. It was a surprisingly easy task, he found, secure in the knowledge that he would not be made to wait forever.

What were mere hours, really, in the face of a lifetime together?

There was a gentle knock upon his wooden door, and he reverently set her ring upon his dresser, hurrying to the door to open it, taking a calming breath before he did so. He had expected Missandei, alone, but the sight that greeted him instead was one that left him weak-kneed and off-kilter.

Missandei was there, certainly, smiling somewhat smugly, but she stepped aside to reveal Dany just behind her.

Gone was the Mother of Dragons, the Conquering Daenerys from earlier in the day, in her stiff coats and heavy chains. The proper Lady in her fine silks had departed, as well. Instead, he saw what had always lay just beneath, the Dany who had lived on in his mind over the past years, her hair let down and curling around her shoulders, shining in the flickering torchlight, a thick robe wrapped around her body, a shy smile on her lips.

“I thought it best to come to you, instead, Jon. May I enter?” She waited, hesitating across the threshold, taking two steps inside as he held the door open and nodded mutely. Missandei did not wait to be dismissed, taking her leave with a knowing look cast towards them both.

“Enjoy your evening, Your Graces.” She was gone, as quickly as she’d come, leaving Jon and Dany standing finally, blessedly alone, in the silence of his chambers. He felt awkward, suddenly, as nervous as he was as a youth, in the face of her beauty. She had been lovely upon her carved throne, and radiant in her black silks, but now it was as though she’d walked out of his dreams, and he wasn’t sure where to start.

“Hullo,” she whispered sweetly, biting at her lip as he shut the door, sealing them both away from the world. She toyed with her fingers for a moment, glancing down before she risked meeting his eyes again, and he realized with a wave of relief that she was just as nervous as he was.

It was ridiculous, really, after all that had passed between them, but it had been so long that he thought it might not be so strange, this anticipation that swirled in his stomach. She had always been so bold, far bolder than he, and he realized it was time for him to take action, for once.

So, he reached for her, plucking at her hand where it fisted in the red brocade of her robe, joining their hands and pulling her further inside. Jon smiled down at her, leading her to the hearth, tugging lightly at her hand to pull her into a loose embrace. “I thought I was coming to you, Dany.” He wrapped his arms around her back, his palm flat against her spine, as she pressed in closer against him. “What changed?”

Dany seemed to shed her shyness with each second that passed in his arms, and he reveled in the feel of her slender limbs wrapping around his waist, at the way she nuzzled her nose and cheek against his neck, taking slow, deep breaths before she finally answered him. “I thought we might be best served with a bit of privacy, tonight.” Jon felt his eyes widen as he realized precisely what she meant, the rush of blood southward warning him that his want for her would be very obvious, very soon, pressed chest to chest and hip to hip as they were. She giggled at the look on his face, leaning back in the cage of his arms to give him a tiny, wicked smile. “There are ears everywhere, near my chambers, and I seem to recall finding it a bit difficult to control my volume where you are concerned, Jon.”

She set about a silent examination of him, as he chuckled, her hands crawling up his chest to pull at the tie that held his hair back, letting out a relieved little sigh as his curls were freed. “There he is, my shy apprentice smuggler.” Warm hands swept across his forehead, down the line of his nose, tracing the line of his short beard, and he found himself able to do little else but close his eyes and soak in the pleasure granted him by her mere touch. He felt lighter than he had in years, and freer as well, joy rushing through him and chased close behind by the steady current of desire that he could not contain. It had been locked away, so long now, that it was like a beast, uncaged, refusing the chains he tried to place around it.

Dany let her fingers dance against the fabric of his tunic, at his shoulder, where long ago she had tended the wounds that had long since scarred over. She smiled wistfully, peeking up at him, letting out a long sigh. “I can hardly believe that you’re really here, that it’s really you. All day long, I have found it difficult, to truly let myself accept it.” Pushing lightly against his shoulder, she took a step back, her smile growing wider and hungrier as she drank in the sight of him. “Show me,” she urged, nodding towards his shoulder. “Perhaps I need more convincing, for my heart to accept what my mind tells me is true.”

Jon was all too eager to comply, stilled only by a flash of metal that caught his eye, over her shoulder. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he smoothed his palms down the thick fabric that covered her, his fingers catching and tangling with hers briefly before he took a regretful step back. “Hang on,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile before stepping to his dresser.

He’d had it for so long, this last remnant of her, of Dany, of their time together, but the time had come, he realized. It was time to give it back, to return to her what had been lost.

He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, slowly approaching her, the ring held before him like an offering. And he knew, the moment she realized what it was, heard the small gasp and her breath quickening, saw the way her eyes widened and her hands shook as she reached forward, to bridge the gap.

“Jon,” she whispered. She shook her head, features crumpling as her fingertips traced the design of the cold metal. Cerulean eyes locked on his, an adoration pouring from them that made him glad beyond reason that he’d kept this trinket for so long. “That ring is—”

“Yours,” he finished, handing it over, watching as she turned it over and over, her eyes clinging to each swoop and curve of the band, a sad smile stealing across her face at his words.

“No,” she said, with a sniffle. “My mother’s.” She fiddled with the ring a moment longer, lips parted, almost disbelieving, even as she finally slipped the ring onto her finger. Her eyes flew to his, her brow wrinkling. “I thought this was gone forever. Viserys, my brother,” she paused, her throat bobbing, face growing pained, “he said the Lannisters had found us, that we had to throw them off our trail. We left, the very day I said goodbye to you. And my mother’s ring,” now her lip trembled, and he cupped a warm hand along her jaw, “he said it had to remain behind. We had to make them think we were dead.”

Jon’s eyes closed, that old despair washing over him. “I distinctly believed you were dead, yes. So I suppose it worked. And you were bartered off to the Dothraki.” He shook his head miserably. “I’m sorry, Dany. I’m so sorry. You’ll never know how much. I sat in that shack for days, moping. And by the fifth day, when Davos came, I had myself convinced I’d been a fool, that I had to go after you, tell you the truth.” He let loose with a harsh breath, remembering the guilt that had nearly crippled him, the way he’d cursed himself for going, finally, and being too late to save her. “I had it in my head that I would take you away, to the North, and hide you, forever if I must.”

When he opened his eyes, Jon saw her staring at him intently, his own regret there, in her eyes. “I wanted to tell you, as well, but it was dangerous. Too dangerous, I thought, to tell you who I really was. How could I have known we were afraid of the same enemy?” She stepped into his personal space, robe brushing against his tunic, and again her fingers danced across his shoulder. “I want to see your scars, Jon. I need to see them.”

Jon sucked in a breath, his whole body tensing as he pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it away mindlessly and tracking her every move as her hand pressed against the pink, puckered scars she’d seen when they were fresh and raw and new.

Her index finger dipped into each, then she slowly circled him, stopping behind him, giving the same soft, warm touch to the mirrored injuries she found there. He shuddered when he felt the hot, humid puff of her breath against him, when those full, plump lips pressed open-mouthed kisses against each scar she encountered. “There was nothing you could have done, Jon. You must understand that.”

Jon turned abruptly, clutching her to his body fiercely, face sinking into the silver mass of hair that flowed down her shoulders and back, his hands pinning her tightly to him, locking together behind her back. “Perhaps that is so,” he whispered hotly, finding her ear and nuzzling it with the tip of his nose, “but it doesn’t change the fact that I wanted to, more than anything. That ring was all I had left, so I kept it,” he said, each word urging him to hold her impossibly tighter. He leaned back, only far enough to look into her face, to see the wistful sadness and want and love that blazed from her, freely now. “But I reckon I’m willing to give it back. A fair trade, all things considered. You, for that.” He nodded towards her hand, now adorned with her mother’s ring, where she clutched at his bare shoulder.

Her lips tipped up in a salacious little twist. “Hmmm. I think we can do rather better than just my presence, Jon *Snow*,” she offered, emphasizing the last part with an air of amused desire. She pushed him away, gently, firelight flickering across her fine features, and nibbled at her lower lip. Then, before he could speak a word, she untied the sash at her waist. She shrugged, the weighty fabric slipping down, and at first he thrilled, thinking her bare underneath.

But she was not, he saw. Almost, but not quite.

She stepped free of the robe, letting it pool at her small feet, and gave him a hesitant smile. “Do you remember?” Her hands lingered at her thighs, smoothing the lavender fabric, peering up at him through her lashes as she moved to press against him.

He stopped her, though, grabbing at her shoulders and halting her progress. “Oh, aye,” he said, with a guttural growl. “I remember.” This dress had been burned into his memory, seared into his consciousness, the subject of more fantasies than could be tallied over the years. Reverently, his fingers traced the straps that slipped down her shoulders, along the collar of the flimsy material, before coursing up the elegant column of her neck to tip her chin up. “I can’t believe you still have it.”

Dany sucked in a breath, seemingly hesitant. “I was married in it.” Her eyes were downcast, on her feet, for several beats, until she seemed to force her head upwards, defiant. “But I was yours, first, Jon. Yours, always. I never forgot you,” she said vehemently, “Never.” Pale fingers teased between his pectoral muscles, beginning a slow glide down his chest that had his muscles twitching, ‘til she dipped a fingertip into the hollow of his navel. “I have always been yours.”

Questions burned on the tip of his tongue, her every admission only prompting more, but it had been too long, far too long, since the simple, unyielding pleasure of her touch.

She seemed to sense the war within him. Lips quirking in a tiny grin, she leaned up, nipping at this skin of his neck, just as she used to. “Let us talk later. I need you, now. I need to know this is real, not some fever dream that my mind has conjured up, to torture me with.”

Jon was conquered, wholly and completely, by the fierce hunger in her eyes, and the soft plea in her voice; She was two, in one. This was Daenerys Targaryen, Conquering Dragon Queen, but his Sweet Dany remained, wild and free and dragging him along in her wake, just as she always had. His hands skated along her sides, skimming down her hips, ‘til he reached the hem of the garment. “I want to see you,” he husked against her lips, just barely grazing that tender flesh with his own, his eyes still locked with hers. She gave a nod, hesitation having fled, and reached behind to untie the lacing at her neck as he gathered the material in his hands.

Jon pulled, higher and higher, every inch of flesh revealed only serving to stoke the raging inferno inside him, banked for so long he’d forgotten that he could feel this way. When he pulled her dress free, her hands raised obligingly so that he might strip the garment over her head and down her arms, he felt the air rush from his chest. She was perfect, every inch, so achingly perfect. They had been young, certainly, when he’d first seen her this way. But before him, he could see for himself, that the promise of what she would become had been fully realized.

She was a girl of six and ten no more. Now, she was a woman grown, breasts rounder, fuller, hard-tipped and pink in the slight chill of his chambers. She showed no hint of bashfulness, her eyes dark and hungry as she watched him take her in, his gaze trailing from the enticing curves of her breasts, down her narrow waist, to the contours of her full hips. Her legs were strong, well-muscled now, no doubt from riding her great beast, and she kicked off her silk slippers to reveal the dainty feet he remembered well as she endured his heated scrutiny.

With effort, Jon dragged his eyes back up her body, meeting hers as he gave her a slow, easy smile. “I meant to tell you how beautiful you looked, earlier. But,” he said with a pleased sigh, “I reckon I like this even better.”

Dany snorted, indelicately, stepping close, her warm hands tracing across his chest and down his stomach, to tease just above the material of his trousers. “Enough talking,” she said, eyes dancing as she reached for the lacing of his trousers. “You’re wearing too many clothes. It’s very rude, you know.”

Jon looked down, watching as her nimble fingers set him free, hissing as she wrapped her palm around his hard, aching length and set him free from the confines of his breeches. Her lips curved in a wicked smile, eyes bouncing from the stiff cock in her hand to his face. He shoved at the offending clothes, trying not to stumble as he toed out of his boots and stockings and rid himself of the few items he still wore. “Well,” he ground out, wriggling out of her grasp before he could embarrass himself completely by spilling in her hand, “I shouldn’t wish to be rude, not to my betrothed, certainly. You could fry me up with your great big dragon, after all.”

Dany cocked a brow, her gaze predatory as she searched his form, no doubt a bit different from what she remembered, as he was a boy no longer, either. Tongue snaking out to wet her lips, she sauntered to his bed, climbing atop nimbly, to seat herself and rub her palm at the empty space beside her. “Look at all this room, Prince Jon. Not at all like that tiny cot in your little shack, is it?”

It wasn’t, not at all, almost palatial compared to the narrow little bed he’d had her on so long ago, and he chuckled as he crossed to stand before her, catching her wicked hands before she could undo him completely. He made a censorious noise under his breath, smirking when she frowned at him, her wrists caught in one of his hands. “You’d best keep your hands to yourself, Princess, or I shall be very cross with you. It’s been far too long since anyone’s touched me, and you’re liable to have this over far sooner than I’d like.”

Her consternation turned decidedly naughty, her eyes falling to where his cock bobbed rather insistently near her face. “I wonder if I remember everything you like, Jon. I rather suspect I do.” Before he could shy away she leaned forward, tongue sweeping across the head of his cock, wringing a tortured groan from him as she took as much of his length into her mouth as she could manage, her reach limited by the hands caught between their bodies.

“Dany,” he whimpered, stepping back, wincing at the loss of her hot, wet mouth as he was released from between her lips. He dropped her hands only to grab about her waist, hauling her up the bed until she was resting on his pillows, staring down at him stubbornly. Smoothly, he slid up, pulling her calves apart, watching as her smile grew as she realized what he was going to do. It had been a long time, no doubt, but he was certain he remembered what she liked, as well. “Clearly you aren’t going to behave yourself, are you?”

His sweet Dany only wiggled her brows at him, shifting her hips upward in a clear request, as he situated himself between her thighs, his knees holding them apart so that his eyes could drink her in. “Define behave.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her, his hands smoothing up her thighs, and he allowed himself the sweet bliss of nestling his cock against her, reveling in how slick she was for him, her want clear at the searing wetness his found as he brought their bodies flush together. He claimed her lips, kissing her voraciously, moaning as she did when their hips took up a long-forgotten rhythm as they ground together. She clutched at him, her hands roaming from his shoulders to tunnel into his hair, working the band that held his curls back free as she suckled at his tongue.

When he pulled back, panting, she grinned. “There he is,” she breathed, tousling his hair. “That’s who I remember.” She smiled at him then, so sweetly, that he couldn’t help but return it, his ardor cooling only slightly as a wave of affection took over. He braced himself on his elbows, looking down at her, wondering which Gods he would have to give thanks to, that she had been returned to him. Jon leaned down, pressing light kissing to her forehead, then her eyelids, on the tip of her nose, to each of her cheeks, in turn.

“Aye, I reckon that lad is still in here, somewhere.” With a knowing look, he crawled down her body, enjoying the way she began to writhe, the way her hands sought purchase on the furs in anticipation. So, he thought, she had not forgotten either, the ways he had learned to please her. He breathed out, against her inner thigh, nipping and licking a path to where she was wet and wanting, the scent of her enough to make him believe he could hear the surf pounding against the sand, that sea birds were crying above, as his right hand slid to her drenched folds, teasing at the silver curls just above and glancing teasingly against the swollen bud just below.

“Jon,” she keened, her hips twisting and rolling beneath him, “I need—”

He parted his lips, giving her one long, slow lick from her center, dipping in just barely to taste her, his eyes closing as his every sense was flooded with her. She was just as he remembered, tart and sweet and addictive, and when he reached her clit he knew what she wanted. He flicked his tongue against her, tracing slow circles around the tender bud then teasing across it, until she was whining and crying out, mindless with each sweeping stroke.

Dany had run out of words, and he grinned against her dripping pink folds, sucking and licking in ways meant to drive her mad, her hands releasing the furs to clench at his head, nails digging into his scalp as she gave sharp, keening cries. Finally, he took mercy on her, knowing he had brought her to the precipice, that she was teetering on the edge, and he thrust two fingers inside her, groaning himself at the feel of her, tight and grasping against the digits as he started a fast, driving rhythm that he followed with his mouth, suckling at her clit until she arched so sharply her back came clear of the bed.

“Jon,” she cried out, sobbing his name over and over, as wave after wave took her, and he nursed every last convulsion from her, following each roll of her hips with his mouth and hand until she collapsed, breathless, limp and boneless when he finally pulled away.

This was how he remembered her most; Those precious moments when pleasure infused her every cell, when she was laid to waste before him, conquered completely and gazing up at him with rapturous wonder. No matter how many preened and fawned in his father’s court, this was the only worship he ever required, the adoring stare of the one he loved most, as he fed the need inside her.

It was almost enough to make him ignore the furious throbbing of his cock.

Almost.

She crooked a finger at him, breath still coming in fast pants. “C’mere,” she said, holding her arms out for him to make the journey up her form. He swiped a hand across his mouth and beard, still wet from his actions, and teased a moist trail up her stomach, stopping to let his mouth caress and tease at each stiff, rosy peak with his teeth and tongue until she forcibly pulled him up the rest of the way. “I missed you so,” she said, grinning at his smug expression. “Every day, I missed you, Jon.”

His face softened, something tender hovering between them, and he braced himself on his arms above her, welcoming the way she wrapped her legs around him, to hold him close. With a shaking hand, his control nearly pushed to the limit, he swept back strands of silver that clung to her sweat-dampened skin. “I never stopped loving you. Never.”

The force of his whisper wasn’t lost on her, and it was all there, in her eyes. All the love they’d clung to, had never been able to kill inside themselves, flared back to glorious life, and he was sure she could see the same in him.

“I loved you then, my sweet Jon, and I love you still.” She gave a slow, rolling circle of her hips. “I want to feel you.” His head dropped at the feel of her, wetting the length of his cock, his hips thrusting of their own accord. “Inside me.”

He nodded, breath stalling as he reached down, lifting up so he could take himself in hand, the blunt head of his cock just pressing against her dripping entrance.

Jon pressed into her, slowly, inch by inch, until he was seated inside her fully, biting hard at the inside of his cheek to keep from slamming into her in a frenzy. It had been too long, and he needed her too much, but he didn’t want to hurt her. It was exactly what he remembered, but more, for his dreams and fantasies had not been able to recreate the molten heat of her, like a forge fire, like she was remaking him into something new, with each slide into her welcoming body.

And perhaps she was, he thought, as he started a slow, steady pace, the first steps in a dance they had perfected a lifetime ago, drunk on each other and Davos’s strong rum, under hot summer skies and scorching heat and sand. Their bodies knew, they remembered well, and she was rolling up to meet each thrust, spurring him on, squeezing him with her cunt and a tight grip at each shoulder to go harder, faster, deeper.

“Yes,” she gasped, nails scoring down his back, heels digging into his spine as their hips began to slap loudly together, the wet sounds of their lovemaking almost eclipsed by her high-pitched cries and his deep, guttural groans.

“Fuck, Dany. Oh, Gods,” he moaned, abandoning restraint in favor of fucking her furiously, feeling the way she was tightening around him, her body coiling and ready for another release, that hot, itching burn starting deep in his groin as he felt his own building beyond his control.

He only just barely got his thumb to her sex, sliding and swirling her slickness against her clit, grunting and he watched her face begin to contort in sweet agony. “That’s it, Dany. Give it to me.” He worked her, cock stroking deep, changing the angle of his hips just a fraction, each rolling thrust hitting something inside her that made her let out a cry that was almost a scream as he pressed and circled the small, swollen nub just above where they were joined. “Let me hear you.”

She was clenching him so tightly, when she came again, that he thought he might pass out, so much tighter and sensitive than he’d remembered, and he finally let go as her walls began to flutter and grab at his in a way that made holding back impossible. She was crying out in a language that sounded like Valyrian to his rather untrained ears, coupled with pleased groans as she felt him spill inside her, his seed filling her as his hips jerked and strained, as he was overcome with a euphoria that seemed never-ending.

His arms finally gave out, and he was blanketing his body with hers, their skin sticky and hot, his hips still gently stroking his cock into her until he finally felt drained. His face came to rest against her neck, and he pressed open-mouthed kisses there until he finally felt strong enough to push up and off of her.

Dany’s legs fell to his side, and he withdrew from her, rolling onto his back as his eyes closed, a peace sweeping over him that had almost been forgotten, something he’d discounted as lost forever, something he’d only ever felt with her.

And, just as she used to, she twisted, pressing into his side, her head coming to rest against the crook of his arm as she placed her palm flat against his racing heart.

“I missed you, too,” he finally said, quietly, piercing the silence of the room. “So much I can’t even begin to describe it.” He glanced down, watching the moonlight and orange glow of the fire in the hearth dancing along the ring on her finger.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she whispered against his skin, and then they did not speak, not for some time, in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Instead, they indulged in something they’d never gotten to do, before. They fell asleep, in each other’s arms, content to stay as they were, skin against skin, all night.

\----------

Jon sat up slowly, every muscle screaming in protest, his gut twisting sickly when he reached beside him and realized he was alone. Suddenly frantic, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, glancing at the window to see the sun was just starting to creep above the horizon.

He was relieved to see her robe still lying on his floor, her gown as well, their discarded clothing still littering the room, and then she was there, emerging from the privy in the small, adjoining room, still naked, and even more glorious to his eyes in the new morning light.

“Hullo,” she said, an endearing shyness emerging that made him fall in love with her, anew, and when his throat grew tight at the sight of her, he just held out his arms, hands waving her over, and she crawled willingly into his embrace.

“Hullo,” he said, against her silver hair, just breathing her in for a moment as she relaxed against him. “I was scared, for a moment, that I had imagined everything.”

She giggled, and sat back, kneeling on the furs, but then her eyes grew serious, and he wondered if he’d misspoken. “Jon,” she began, a note of graveness in her voice that made him nervous, “there’s something we must speak about. Now, before we leave this room.”

Jon cocked his head, his eyes searching her face. “Dany,” he said reassuringly, “whatever it is, you can tell me, without worry, without concern.” She shuffled closer, raising a hand to comb through his wayward curls. “I swear it.” He captured her hand and kissed it, and waited.

Dany took a deep, steadying breath, and he was proud of the way he only barely glanced at the way it made her breasts sway before he returned his gaze to her face. “Naerys has grown very fond of you. You’ve been very sweet to her, in my absence. Though, now that I know just who this Northern Prince is, I am not surprised.” She gave him a tentative smile, that fell away all too quickly.

“She’s a good lass, Dany. You ought to be very proud of her.” He smiled, warmly, trying to soothe the worry he saw in her eyes.

“I am,” she replied, haltingly, eyes flitting here and there. “There have been times, Jon, when she was all that kept me alive, that kept me sane. What happened, after we parted,” she took another deep inhalation, her eyes growing damp, “were terrible things, save her for. Without her, I would have surely been lost.”

Jon couldn’t take it anymore, and he reached out, pulling her close, smoothing a hand down her back as the other caressed her hair. “Then I am even more glad to know her. And I will treat her as though she were my own, I swear to you. I know what it is, to be in her position. I will not treat her as my father’s wife treated me, that I can promise.”

His earnest words, rather than comforting her, only seemed to make her tense further, and she pulled away from him forcefully, her eyes pressed tightly closed, as though she was fighting back tears.

“I know,” she finally said, her lips trembling. She began toying with the ring on her finger, cerulean eyes opening again to watch as she fidgeted with the metal band. “Why did you keep this ring, Jon?”

Jon blinked, somewhat taken aback by the abrupt change in conversation. He pondered the question silently, for several moments, before he finally responded. “Because it was all I had of you. Because even if you were lost to me, I had this,” he took her hand, thumbing at the ring, “I had one little piece of you to keep with me, always, no matter where I was.”

Dany let out a shuddering breath, seeming to decide on something, nodding slowly as she let out a ragged exhale. “I understand.” She licked at her lips, nervously, and laced their fingers together, squeezing. “I had a piece of you, as well. Something I treasured, above all else. Something of you that I could have with me, always. Viserys told me you had been killed, you see. I don’t know how he found out about you, about what we were up to.” Her lips twisted in a sad smile. “He told me, just after we left Lys, that he’d had you and your smuggler friend killed, had your shack burned to the ground. Though clearly that was a lie.” She swallowed, and finally her eyes locked with his. “But until now, all I had was that one little piece of you, that no one could take away from me, something perfect and wonderful.” There was a deeper meaning, in her voice, and he felt his brow crease in confusion.

He tugged at her hand, mind racing over what she could’ve taken with her. Finally, he simply asked, not sure entirely what she was getting at. “What was it?”

Dany looked down, nibbling at her lower lip. “I realized, when were traveling to Vaes Dothrak,” she said, tensing again, “that I had not had my moonblood.”

Jon stilled, eyes widening, comprehension beginning to creep in. “Dany,” he answered, startled, “what do you—”

“And by the time I wed Khal Drogo,” she pressed on, raising her free hand to silence his question, words falling faster now from her lips, “it had been nearly two moons gone.” She was trembling like a leaf, now, but she looked bravely into his eyes, willing him to understand.

Everything narrowed, and tunneled, and all he could see was her, her eyes telling him what her lips had hinted at, the truth of it threatening to stop his heart completely.

Naerys. She was speaking of Naerys, the little Princess who said Ghost could tell her secrets, the wee lass his wolf had taken to instantly. He felt dizzy, as though he might faint, and clung to her hand with all his might, as though it alone was keeping him anchored to reality.

“Is she mine?” He sounded dazed, even to his own ears, and at Dany’s tearful nod he felt everything shift, his life warping and twisting and turning before his very eyes, his heart pounding in his ears.

Naerys was his daughter.

He had a daughter.

And then many truths began to batter him like a brisk sea wind, all at once, and onslaught of realizations that had him collapsing back against the pillows, terrified and amazed and overwhelmed.

The irritated words she’d exchanged with Rhaegar, the night prior.

His uncle’s absence from dinner, the way the Dragon King had explained it, in riddles and hints, never really giving him a true answer.

The way Dany had watched he and the small girl together, that look in her eyes as though she were overcome with an emotion he couldn’t put a name on.

It had all been due to this, this truth the three of them had known, for how long he could only guess at, that he had not been privy to, until now.

He didn’t know what to say, his mouth opening and closing several times, speechless, alternating between a joy so sweet he thought he would weep with it, and a fierce and terrible anger that fate had kept him from his wee girl for so long. The thought of what had been done to them, just the barest hint, was enough to make him want to strike something until his knuckles bled, made him want to take his steel and run through any who had ever tried to harm them, Dany and Naerys both. If any still lived, he thought darkly, they would not for long. He would see to that.

Slowly, he sat up, finally realizing the way Dany sat in petrified silence, as though she feared his reaction, as though she sensed his fury. But his anger was not reserved for her, and he reached out, crushing her to him, holding her tightly as he felt her shudder in his arms, felt her tears begin to fall hot and fast against his shoulder.

“She’s mine,” he said quietly, surely. She nodded against him, weeping, her arms wrapping tight around his neck. “She’s mine,” he began to repeat, over and over, rocking Dany gently, letting the truth sink in, to permeate every layer of his heart.

And in his heart, he knew it was true. He let out a watery laugh, remembering all the times he’d thought the girl so like his own daring sister, the small girl’s flashes of boldness, of fierceness, now rooted in fact. She might look like a dragon, but she was a girl of the North, as well. She was his blood. His heir.

Dany’s face was flushed and red, when she finally leaned back, eyes still pained when they met his. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I wasn’t sure you’d believe me. I told Rhaegar that she was not Khal Drogo’s, when I first came to Dragonstone, told him the whole sad tale one night over too many goblets of wine,” she sniffled, swiping a hand at her tears, “but I never dreamed I would find you again. I thought it was impossible, I thought you were gone forever.”

There had been so many holes in his heart, so much emptiness that it had been poised to consume him, he’d thought. But now, he was being filled, with something old, and something new, as well.

“I will not allow us to be parted again, Dany. Never,” he said vehemently, leaning down to kiss away another tear that tracked down her cheek. He took her face in his hands. “Swear the same to me. I cannot lose you again. Or her.”

Finally, the heaviness that seemed to weigh her down abated, and she gave him a tremulous smile. “Never, Jon. Never again. We do this together, now.”

“Aye,” he said, firmly, and kissed her gently, sweetly, as he had when he was barely a man at all. They stared at each other, in contented silence, until another thought crept in, unbidden. “Does she know? Naerys? Does she know about us? About what happened?”

Dany shook her head, sadly. “No,” she answered. “But I think we ought to tell her.”

Jon shook his head, bemused. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

She chuckled, cupping his cheek, “We’ll tell her in due time. First, we ought to get up and about, I think. She’s very excited to show me what she’s learned, you know.”

Jon’s nod was somewhat absent, the thought crashing over him that he had been training to mere girl, or princess, even, to master the bow and the sword. It was his *daughter*, and the pride that swelled in his heart, as he replayed each little victory she’d experienced at his prompting, made his body seize for just a second, as he fought to clear the gruffness in his throat.

A monumental shift, even greater than being reunited with the love he’d thought long lost, had happened, and he knew he faced a choice, here and now. He could let himself be swept away in this, so lost in what he felt that the world around him faded away, or he could take control.

He was a boy, no more, for certain, now. He was a man. A *father*. And it was time, he thought, rising decisively and holding out his hand to Dany, helping her from the tangle of linens and furs, that he started acting like it.

\------------

Naerys was nervous.

Jon could tell by the set of her small shoulders, her whole frame buzzing with energy as Jon helped her strap on her quiver, her limbs trembling slightly beneath her training leathers.

She kept glancing over to the side of the training yard, where Dany and the Lady Missandei stood, flanked by several Dothraki and Unsullied, all silently waiting and watching.

He heard a little breath escape, and took a knee, clapping a hand on her shoulder and waiting until her anxious gaze was focused on him.

“You look a bit worried, lass.” He was trying his best to be steady, to treat her as he always had, not to let it show that everything in his world had shifted, in the space of a day. This was not the place to grab her up and hold her to him, to tell her that she was his flesh and blood, her father in truth, and it was a subject he found himself still grappling with, as well. It was almost beyond comprehension, even as she stood before him, gnawing nervously on her bottom lip, just as Dany always did when she was off-kilter.

The girl looked down at her feet for a moment, then back up to him, her eyes wide and worried. “What if I miss, Prince Jon?”

He had to push aside all that he had learned, he knew, seeing the fear on the girl’s face. He shook his head, commanding her attention. “Listen to me, lass.” He pointed to the pitch, where ten targets had been placed. “That is all I want you to focus on, yes?” She nodded, barely, still clearly unconvinced, peeking back again at her mother. “Naerys,” he said forcefully, and braids whipped through the air as she faced him again. “Don’t worry about who is watching. Don’t worry about anything, except this bow,” he tapped his finger against the wood, “and that target. You know what to do. Nothing’s changed.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, her brow wrinkled in concentration, and though it seemed a struggle, he saw the girl slowly force herself to relax. When she looked at him again, he saw something that nearly stole his breath, that look of hard, steely determination that he knew all too well.

Right now, in just this moment, though she was fair where he was dark, and her eyes were of uncommon purple where his were iron gray, it was as though he was looking at himself in the mirror. He let out a breath, cuffing her under her chin and making her laugh, fighting the urge to whisper the truth to her.

Not yet, he reasoned. Not here, and not now.

“Will you stay near me?” Normally, he would take up a position to watch, as she had outgrown the need for constant correction, but in this, he found he could not refuse her. He nodded, his throat tight, unable to force any words out in reassurance.

She didn’t need his words, though. She leaned over, giving him a quick hug ‘round his neck, bow still clasped in her hand and thumping against his back. “Thank you, Prince Jon.” She pulled back, and he was glad to see she did not spare another look at their audience. “Wish me good fortune.”

Jon screwed his face up comically, shaking his head. “I would, Princess, but I don’t think you’ll need it.”

Naerys just wrinkled her nose at him, amused and, he was happy to see, heartened by his confidence. She swatted him away with a small hand, then clenched her jaw, marching with determination across the yard with Jon trailing close behind.

She took up her spot, planting her feet, just as he’d shown her, and nocked an arrow.

“Breathe,” he whispered to her, “and let it fly.”

She peeked at him, gave a slow, solemn nod, and did as he said.

And one by one, she planted her arrow in the heart of each target, ignoring the cheers that arose from the onlookers, so focused on her task that she did not look anywhere but before her until her last arrow had found a home.

Jon wasn’t surprised, not at all.

He wasn’t surprised, either, when she eschewed seeking her mother’s praise in favor of walking to each target and dutifully pulling her arrow free, setting it back in her quiver. That was the order of things, when they trained.

But he was surprised, near stunned, when finally, her last arrow tucked away, it was to him she turned, and ran, a smile as brilliant as the sun on her face. “I did it,” she breathed, her face awash in amazement, and no small measure of pride. “I did it, Prince Jon!”

He couldn’t help it. He knelt down, and swept her up into a fierce hug, one that only lasted a few seconds before he released her and stood again, grinning down at her. “I knew you could.” He tugged at one of her thin silver braids as she felt let her excitement run free. “Good thing you ate your vegetables, I think.” He sneaked a glance to where Dany stood, and he didn’t need to see her clearly to know she was wiping away a stray tear, beaming at them both, Missandei whispering steadily in her ear. “Now, go let your mother tell you how proud she is of you, lass. She looks like she’s about to burst.”

Naerys complied readily enough, scurrying off to the patch of shade her mother occupied, across the yard, silver braids flying as she ran. Jon threw Dany an easy smile, one she quickly returned, and tried, in the girl’s immediate absence, to sort out how he was going to make it through the day without telling her the truth.

\-----------

Daenerys insisted that Naerys tend to her lessons, and though Jon hated to be parted from either of them it was a bit of a relief, to be striding the halls with Davos, to have some quiet in which to sort out how he felt.

Because, he was finding, it had been so long since he’d felt anything, really, that he was feeling everything, now, and all at once.

Oh, he was elated in one respect, that Dany had been returned to him, that fate had been kind enough to return the piece of him that had been ripped away so long ago. And he was equally happy to know that the little girl he’d grown so fond of over the past months, whom he’d sworn to treat as though she were his own, was just that.

It was just all so enormous, it seemed to him. It was hard to grapple with, that any of it was really happening. He thought it must be like living in a never-ending dream, and so, despite his overwhelming joy, something bone deep that filled him with uncommon warmth even in these cold stone walls, it was chased by something else, that shook him to his very core.

Fear.

Gods, it set his teeth on edge, a terror that twisted his heart, that filled him with such dread that he truly worried, for the first time, what he might be capable of.

There was so much to lose, now, so much more than ever before, and he had found the parts of him that had been missing only to march headlong into a great war, that might cost him everything.

“Your Grace,” Davos murmured from his side, “I must say, you seem a bit troubled.”

Jon came to a stop, extending a hand to halt the other man’s progress as well, and pulled Davos into a nearby parlor, shutting the door firmly behind them. He stared at the old sailor, suddenly at a loss, wondering where he should even begin. But bluntness had always been best, between the two of them, so he just spit it out.

“She’s mine, Davos.” When the man’s brows furrowed, he hastened to clarify. “The girl, Naerys. She’s *mine*.”

Davos grinned, slowly, the corners of his mouth creeping up as a nodded. “Ah, yes. You’ve worked that out, then?” Jon looked askance at the man, who seemed nearly smug.

“You knew?”

Davos shrugged slightly, lips pressed tight beneath his gray beard as though he were trying to contain a laugh. “That little lass doesn’t look much like those Dothraki of Her Grace’s, now does she?”

Jon scoffed, rubbing at his temple as he dropped into a chair. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she doesn’t favor me much either, Davos. That doesn’t really prove much.”

Davos heaved a heavy sigh, and took a seat nearby, growing serious. He was silent for several moments, eyes searching the small room, a bit dusty from lack of use by all appearances, no torches lit nor fire burning in the meager hearth. It was only the sunlight filtering in that showed Jon the play of emotions across the man’s face. “I have served your father for a very long time, Prince Jon. He was a Prince himself when I was caught smuggling goods from White Harbor, and brought to King Rickard to face justice. I reckon Eddard was near your age, when your grandfather relieved me of a few fingers, and set me a place in his court, to serve House Stark alone, as penance.”

He raised his hands, where Jon knew a digit was missing from each hand, and laughed. “Not such a big price to pay, I suppose. The North has been my home, and House Stark has become like family to me, lad. I was there, when your father took the field of battle. I was there, when he lost his father. I was there,” Davos paused, words hanging pendulously in the air, “when he fell in love.”

Jon look away, this topic surprisingly tender to him, in this moment. “Aye, I know.”

“Your father,” Davos stopped and started, before he found the words he wanted to say. “It was hard for him, when Ashara died. I think you understand that, now, how it can break a man, though he still stands, when he loses what he loves the most.”

Jon nodded, but just barely, his jaw clenching as he wondered what the man was getting it. “Aye,” he agreed again, “but what has that to do with this, Davos?”

Davos winced, slightly. “He rarely spoke of her, his first Queen, his greatest love. It was too hard, even a man as sturdy, as steady, as Eddard. And so it is, that you don’t know much of her, not what she was really like, from those who loved her, and knew her best.”

Jon crossed his arms, eyes narrowing as he studied Davos. “My uncle has told me much, since we’ve come.” And that was true. Arthur had shared many stories, some gladder and some sadder, of what his mother had been like, but even for the knight there were times he had to stop himself, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

Davos stared right back. “A good thing, indeed. But when you tell me that the girl doesn’t favor you at all,” the man’s head tipped back and forth, considering. “I don’t know that to be technically true. She certainly scowls like you.” Davos laughed sharply when Jon rolled his eyes. “But there is something else, and perhaps if your mother had survived, you would have known it right away.”

Jon sat, mutely, mulling the man’s words over in his mind.

“What color, my Prince, would you say the girl’s eyes are?”

Jon frowned slightly. “Purple, of course. Targaryen eyes.” It was true that Dany had not inherited the traditional Targaryen eye color, as her brother had, but it was to be expected that such things could still appear in their blood. Besides, he found he preferred the remarkable cerulean she possessed, unlike any other.

Davos shook his head. “No. No, Rhaegar, his parents, all with amethyst eyes. A lighter shade, mind you, though I agree they are ‘purple’ by any account.” He was watching Jon closely, now, as the Prince hung on his every word, leaning forward in his chair. “But the little lass, well,” Davos blew out a short breath. “That girl’s got your mother’s eyes. Indigo eyes, that’s what they all said of Ashara.”

Jon felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room, a tightness of chest striking him yet again, for what seemed to be the millionth time in just the span of a day. “Are…are you certain?”

The old sailor’s eyes were kind as they met Jon’s again. “Oh, aye, lad. I’m quite certain. ‘Singular eyes’, that’s what your father called them. Quite striking. You ask Arthur, when you see him next. He’ll tell you the same, I’d wager.”

Jon braced his elbows on his knees, and placed his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do with all this, Davos. I just,” he raised his head, fear nearly choking him, burning its way down his throat, “I came here thinking I’d be gaining a wife I didn’t want.” He could feel an unbidden panic rising within him, threatening to spiral out of control if he allowed it. “Now, there is nothing I want more than to marry her. Now,” he gestured wildly with his hands, breath coming hard and fast, “now I am a father, as well? And we march headlong into war?”

Davos peered at him closely, stepping near and cocking his head as he studied the Prince. “Now,” he said gravely, “you’ve got something to fight for, I think. Something to really fight for. Not just your people, Jon, though I’ve no doubt you would’ve done your duty, without all this.” The grizzled man took a knee, staring straight into Jon’s face. “Calm yourself.” He placed a steadying, bracing hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I will tell you what you are going to do. You’re going to marry your Dany, quick as we can manage it, aye?”

Jon nodded, willing himself to listen to the man’s words, to try to slow his stuttering breath and racing heart. “Tonight. I want to wed her tonight. There’s a Heart Tree, in Aegon’s garden. Rhaegar showed it to me. We’ll do it there.” As he spoke, he felt it, a clarity of intent that showed him the path forward. There was only one, now, revealing itself to him as his mind began to work and pick apart the tangled knots of everything that had transpired.

“Then,” Davos continued, ticking off his verbal list on his remaining fingers, “You’re going to win this bloody war, and make the Lannisters nothing more than a memory, soon forgotten. Shouldn’t be too hard to pull off with three bloody dragons.”

Jon took another deep breath, nodding. “I think you’ve got the right of it there.”

Davos smiled sagely, ticking off another item. “And then, Jon Stark, you’re going to rule them all with your Queen at your side, and your wee little lass, and you’re going to do everything in your power to make sure that protect them, and keep them safe.”

He understood, intellectually, what Davos was doing. It was as he had done with Naerys, in the yard. He needed to focus on nothing but what was most important to him, the little family he’d found in the wreckage of what he’d thought he lost. Dany and Naerys, that was what mattered. The notion carried a certainty with it that finished off the job of calming him, that settled his mind, crystallized the future in his mind.

He had not, in the aftermath of Rhaegar’s plans, been sure he wanted the weight of so many Kingdoms on his shoulders, even with the might of dragons to keep at least a modicum of order within their grasp, but now, he could see the possibilities.

They could forge something new, he and Dany, perhaps leave the world a little better for his daughter, and those who came after, for all the daughters and sons who need not grow up in the throes of constant conflict.

His daughter. It was still a bit foreign, still an adjustment to grow familiar with, but it had already lodged itself in his mind and heart, and it grew and flourished like a green spring vine, wrapping itself around everything, wild and untamed.

Jon nodded firmly, giving Davos a small smile. “Where is my Uncle?” He stood, smartly, the mantle of this new identity settling around him as warmly as his heavy Northern cloak did. “I need to speak with him.”

\-----------

He found Arthur, alone, in his chambers, the man’s eyes rimmed with red, heavy with shadows.

When bid to enter, he saw his mother’s brother standing at the window, staring out into the grounds below, his face purposefully blank as he turned to watch Jon enter.

“Is it true?” The question escaped before Jon could stop himself. “Her eyes, Uncle. Is it true?” His voice broke, finally, wetness building in his eyes as he felt himself begin to break under the weight of it, the wall between his mind and his emotions finally cracking.

Arthur nodded, his face changing into a mask of wistful sadness, and then the wall came down completely. His uncle crossed the room, just as Jon backed himself against the chamber walls, sliding down as his knees gave out, harsh sobs beginning to escape as the man reached him.

And then Arthur was embracing him, kneeling on the floor before him as Jon wept. All the years, of feeling so empty and hollow, of missing the woman he’d never known crashed over him, and it was futile to try to remain stoic and unaffected, especially in front of one who would surely understand.

His uncle seemed to, implicitly. “Oh, ‘tis a blessing Jon. An unexpected blessing.” He could hear, even without looking at the man, that his Arthur had given himself over to his emotions, his own voice thick with tears. “How happy she would be, my sister would, if she were here with us now.”

Jon sucked in a breath, shaky and shuddering, as Arthur drew back, still crouched before him, his face just as wet with tears as the Prince’s. “Truly?” He felt a sick twist in his gut as another realization struck. “She is a bastard. My daughter. Gods, Arthur, what have I done?”

“No.” Arthur had collected himself, at Jon’s declaration, his eyes steely and set as he eyed Jon. “That is not what she is. She is a gift, Jon Stark. She must be, sent by the Gods themselves, so that at least, perhaps, we can heal the hurts inside us both. And she will never be known as a bastard. Never.” He spoke with such vehemence that Jon was compelled to believe, even though was not sure what was to be done about it. Perhaps she could be legitimized, but he wondered if he had stained the small girl’s future prospects beyond repair.

“She doesn’t know yet.” Jon squinted, brow furrowed with worry. “How do I tell her this? How do I explain this? That she had to suffer so?” He felt himself choking up again, grief gripping him as he replayed in his mind the torment his greatest love and his child had endured, across the Narrow Sea. “I wasn’t there to protect them.”

Guilt was a bitter sting on his tongue, and he wondered if it would ever abate. Perhaps he couldn’t have known, and perhaps there was little he could’ve done if he had, but still, the thought of a moment of hurt befalling either of them was enough to make an unholy rage burn in his chest.

“You cannot change the past, nephew.” Arthur shook his head sadly, his own ghosts flaring to life in his eyes as they met Jon’s. “And dwelling on it does no one a bit of good. But the future is not yet set, and you can make of it anything you wish.” Arthur stood, extending a hand, pulling a still-sniffling Jon to his feet. “You’re not the boy you were, either. You’re a man now, and I swear to you, on the Old Gods and the New,” his uncle gripped his forearm tightly, “I will see you made King of us all.”

Crowns were heavy things. And Jon could not pretend that the task ahead would be easy or without challenge.

But he would bear the weight of it, no matter the cost. He would do it wholeheartedly, to the best of his ability.

For them.


	6. Fibs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding, and another revelation. That one doesn't go exactly as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, last chapter!
> 
> …I MAY have a little epilogue planned for this, we'll see. I have had a few things come up which may limit my writing time, so we'll just ride this out and see how it goes.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the lovely feedback and comments and kudos, I appreciate them probably more than I can express. Enjoy!

  
They wed in Aegon’s garden at twilight, before the Heart Tree of Dragonstone, just as Jon had requested.

When he saw her walking towards him, her path lit by lanterns, led not by her brother, but by their daughter, he felt nothing but wonder, and awe, that they were here, now, together. He thought perhaps that Arthur had been right, that it had been the Gods themselves, who had guided both he and Dany back to each other, after being so long parted.

He wore his crown of iron and bronze, and she her circlet of rubies, set in the finest gold, as Davos joined them before Jon’s Gods, Rhaegar and Arthur smiling proudly at their sides. And as they knelt, side by side, before that white-barked tree, Jon prayed, more truly than he ever had in his life.

He prayed for wisdom, and for guidance, that he would do what was right, for his people.

He prayed for courage, that he would find the will to face what would follow with a brave heart, that he would master his fear and forge himself into the weapon he must be.

He prayed, more than anything, that the Gods would be kind, that they would not be so cruel as to take away what he loved most.

And when he stood, and set his Northern furs around Dany’s shoulders, and she looked at him with so much love he thought his heart might burst from his chest, he kissed her with abandon, gently but thoroughly, far longer than was proper. A great deal of clamor arouse, joyful shouts and hands clapping together like thunder, but there was no greater cheer than what rose from Naerys, who stood with Ghost, laughing and whooping loud cries like a Dothraki rider.

Parting from Dany, he looked to the little girl, grinning widely and holding out a hand, swinging her up as she giggled and setting her atop his shoulders as her mother looked on and laughed.

He prayed for one more favor, from his Gods, in that moment: that he might find a way to tell her the truth, that she might understand, and that, more than anything, she could forgive him for not finding her sooner.

\----------

Jon wanted to go with his new bride, to see Naerys off to bed, that night. But as they’d walked together, the three of them, a tiny hand tucked into each of her parents’, the ache in his chest only sharpened. It was an impossible thing, this desperate wish inside him to tell the girl that she was *his*, that her Papa was not lost to her, that instead he stood before her, but the best way to tell the girl had not yet revealed itself to him.

Ghost had trailed behind, as always, and when they reached the door to Naerys’s rooms, Jon knelt down, the moment the girl stretched her arms up. She hugged him round his neck, and then he heard it: a small whisper in his ear, quiet and hushed.

“Prince Jon?” She made no move to pull away, and so he stayed close, at her question.

“Yes?” If she wanted her mother to hear, he supposed she’d speak more loudly, and so he kept his response low and quiet as well.

“Can I call you Papa now? Now that you and Mama are wed?”

His heart wrenched at the soft hesitation, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever known such sweet misery, the truth there on the tip of his tongue. So, he swallowed it down, pulled his head back enough so he could look into her earnest face.

“Aye,” he said fondly, nodding and smiling so that he did not weep there in the hallway like a fool. “You can if you wish.”

Her gap-toothed grin was a sight to behold. “But we are still very dear friends, too.” She spoke emphatically, as though to reassure him, as though he might be worried, and he knew as his throat grew tight that he needed to be on his way and let Dany see the girl to bed before he let his mouth spill truths best saved for a different night.

He clutched a hand to his heart dramatically. “I am quite relieved to hear it.”

Purple eyes, his mother’s eyes, he thought, shot to Ghost. “Can Ghost sleep with me tonight? In case he has bad dreams?”

Jon pretended to consider, then nodded slightly, cutting his own eyes to the white beast who seemed to swallow all the spare space around them. “Aye,” he answered, as the girl beamed again, “but not too many honeycakes tonight, alright, Princess?”

“I promise!” She was bouncing on her heels, as she always did when she was excited. “Goodnight, Papa.”

He heard Dany’s swift intake of breath, as he straightened, his ability to speak lost to him as he let the girl’s sweet voice wash over him. He swallowed hard, and looked to his right, where Dany stood watching them, eyes growing bright with unshed tears. Naerys made short work of the door, letting herself in, Ghost hot on her heels.

“I’ll get her settled,” Dany whispered, pressing a tender kiss to his lips, one full of love and promise, “and I will be along shortly.” She seemed to know, how easily he had been overwhelmed, seemed to understand the warring emotions raging through him. “Don’t fall asleep, husband. I have many plans for you later.” She leaned close, so that only he could hear. “Don’t start without me, either.”

With a wiggle of her brows, and a wicked smile, she turned, leaving him alone to ponder it all as she set about putting the wayward child they’d made between them to sleep.

\-----------

It was only a few days later that he stood by Dany’s side in Rhaegar’s council chambers, flanked by the Dragon King and Ser Arthur, making ready the final plans for their siege on their enemies.

Davos lingered by the fire, helping himself to some honeyed mead, staying well clear of the heated discussions the four were engaged in.

“You can’t!” All eyes were on Jon as he slammed a hand down flat on the table, carved figurines shaking as he vented his frustration. “She’s just a girl, she can’t ride that dragon into battle. A girl of six? Against thousands of soldiers?”

A muscle in Rhaegar’s jaw ticked, but he did not relent. “She must, Jon. The Lannister armies and the Baratheon forces are spread throughout these regions.” He gestured between the Riverlands, the Reach, and the Vale. “They’ve abandoned Casterly Rock for now, but it’s worth nothing. Their gold is gone. Storm’s End stands empty as well. Striking there is pointless. We must meet these incursions head on. Your father’s men await us in the Neck, ready to move South at our command, and the Golden Company and my sister’s armies will be split between the other two.”

At his side, in the periphery of his vision, he could see Dany twisting her mother’s ring around her finger. “He’s right, Jon. Our best chance to eliminate them all, quickly, is to send one dragon to each front, with our armies on the ground. We attack from above, and below.”

He wheeled, almost breathless. “Dany,” he breathed, astonished. “She’s just learned to shoot a bloody bow! I’ve no doubt she can rain fire from the skies, but what happens if they bring her dragon down? What then? She cannot fight grown men!”

She had that stubborn look he knew, her whole body tensed, but before she could speak, Ser Arthur did.

“Ride with her, Nephew.” At his uncle’s suggestion he thought his eyes might roll clean out of their sockets.

“I’m meant to lead the Northern armies, Uncle.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve not the foggiest how to make war from the back of a dragon.” He looked about, frantically, wondering if they’d all lost their bloody minds.

Rhaegar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “King Eddard can lead the Northern armies.” He nodded, slowly, in consideration. “It’s not a terrible idea, actually. You don’t have to make war from the back of a dragon, Jon. Silverwing knows what to do. She will protect that girl with her life. She is Naerys’s to command, besides. However,” he trailed a finger down a Riverrun valley, “you have led many campaigns. You can help Naerys, guide her in where to strike.” The man’s brows raised. “You’ll have an excellent view, after all.”

He didn’t care for the peculiar sense the Dragon King was making, because it was so terrifyingly risky, what they were considering. He was prepared to argue ‘til he was blue in the face, but a clamor at the door put and end to their planning.

It was Missandei, bustling in, looking absolutely shaken. “Your Grace,” she said, and rushed to Daenerys, and the two proceeded to have a heated exchange which was frustratingly quiet, in Jon’s view. Missandei would whisper, and Dany’s eyes would bulge, and with each moment that passed his wife seemed ever more shocked.

“Fetch her,” Dany finally muttered, fingers wringing the fabric of her lilac skirts. “Bring her,” she said, a bit more forcefully, eyes flying to Missandei’s. “And the wolf.”

She had paled, his wife, and his earlier irritation was forgotten in the span of a heartbeat. He grabbed for her hand, the moment Missandei left, wondering at how she had begun to tremble. “Dany,” he said urgently, but she was staring blankly at the wall, shaking her head ever so slightly. “Dany,” he said again, tugging gently at her hand in his, “what’s happened?”

“I don’t believe it,” she said numbly, and wandered near Davos to take a seat, white as a sheet. “I simply don’t believe it.”

Jon looked to Rhaegar and Arthur, who both appeared as confused as he felt, then back at his wife. “Dany, is it Naerys? What’s wrong?”

Finally, her much-loved eyes met his, the eyes he had seen in his every dream since they’d parted, blue-green jewels, and she let out a light, breathless laugh. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, still looking dazed. “Just wait.”

In short order, Missandei arrived again, still harried, with a decidedly put-out Naerys in tow. Ghost, for his part, just looked a bit guilty, slinking over to Jon’s side and butting his head against him. Jon glanced at the wolf, suddenly suspicious. “What have you two been up to?”

Ghost just whined, but it was Naerys who spoke, at the gentle clearing of her tutor’s throat. “I told Missy a secret, Mama.” A finger rose to her lips, and she chewed on it nervously, digging her booted toe into the deep pile of the rug as she refused to look up. “And I told Prince Jon a fib.”

It was the latter that seemed to trouble the girl, and her chin quivered as indigo eyes met Jon’s pleadingly. “I had to, please don’t be cross!” She scrambled to Jon, then, throwing her arms around his legs and beginning to cry against him. “Ghost said I couldn’t tell!”

Jon felt his brow crease, and he lowered himself until he could look the crying girl in the face. “What’s all this about?” He kept his voice kind, as Ghost let out another whine.

The little Princess looked at the wolf, who let out a chuff, as though telling her to go on with it. With a shuddering breath, she gazed dolefully at Jon. “He said I had to wait, so I had to tell a fib, when you told me about your Mama who died.”

Jon thought back, remembering the day, on alert now as this was precarious territory for them both, now. He checked over his shoulder to Dany, who just nodded, as though he should continue. He cocked his head, looking back to Naerys, who still sniffling and hiccupping, her cheeks wet.

“You’ve told me often that Ghost tells you secrets,” he said carefully, mind racing as fast as his heart, not sure he could believe what he was about to ask. “Do you mean to say this old wolf really talks to you?”

Naerys nodded, bottom lip poking out, and sniffled again.

“And he tells you secrets?”

Again, she nodded, eyes flitting around as she no doubt felt the stares of many upon her now.

“What did he tell you?”

Jon expected nonsense, still, the imaginings of a lonely child with an inquisitive mind, perhaps, but not what the girl said next.

“When you came I was sore afraid, but Ghost made me feel much better. And when we became the very best friends, he spoke to me, in here.” Naerys pointed at her head, with conviction, as though it were the absolute truth. “And I asked him why he could speak to me inside my head, and he said it was a secret. A very big secret that I must be very quiet about.”

Jon thought his heart might stop completely. “What did he say?”

“He said,” the girl’s voice dropped to a loud whisper, “that I was like him, that I had wolf-blood. And he said I was very, very magic,” she proclaimed to the room at large, rocking back on her heels, her sadness giving way to a quite pleased smile.

Jon felt as though he’d been struck, jaw ticking to the side, and he gave his wolf a hard stare. Ghost, that wicked beast, averted his eyes, seemingly intent on studying the pattern in the rug as though it were the fattest pig in the land.

“And he said I mustn’t be afraid of you, because you were very nice, and he loved you very much, and you were very brave and good. And he said you would not be bad to me or Mama.”

With a last withering look at his wolf, he returned his focus to his daughter. “That’s true, I would never do that.”

Her earlier hesitation forgotten, now that she was caught in the flow of secrets that spilled from her mouth, the girl pressed on.

“And then, do you know what he said, when I told him my Papa was gone?”

Jon sucked in a breath, not daring to let it out, holding in trapped in his lungs until it burned. He shook his head.

“He said that was wrong. He said my Papa wasn’t gone, he was just lost.” Naerys looked sideways, as Jon’s heart pounded in his ears. “So, I had to tell you a fib. Ghost said I couldn’t tell you until Mama came.”

Did she know? It seemed far to improbably to be true, but another glance at his wolf told him the creature certainly had been up to *something*, judging by the way he continued to avoid Jon’s searching stare.

Could she know?

A tug on his arm swung his head back ‘round. “Ghost said,” the girl uttered, seriously, “that you were my real Papa, Prince Jon, not just my new Papa.” Her innocent gaze caught his. “Is that true?”

Jon’s mouth opened and closed, caught of guard by what the girl was telling him. These were yet more impossible things, and it dawned on him that she was very special, this daughter of his. Dany spared him from answering, standing smoothly and coming to his side, reaching a hand out for her daughter’s. Their daughter’s.

“It’s true,” Dany said, simply, and Naerys studied her mother, confused.

“But how, Mama? How?” Jon didn’t know where to begin, his thoughts a jumble, and he looked to Dany, lost in truth.

Lovely blue eyes looked first to Jon, then to Naerys, and with her jaw in a determined set, she answered. “Come with me, both of you.” She looked down to where Naerys still stood, her little mind clearly overworked. “I have a story to tell you, sweetling.”

\---------

Together, they walked to a familiar landing, and Dany picked Naerys up, perching her on the ledge, as Jon and Dany stood before her.

“When I was a girl, just your age,” Dany began, her eyes wandering the grounds, “this was my home. And I loved it, so very much. I loved the Keep, and the places I could explore, and the forges, and the beaches. I was very happy here.”

Naerys had grown solemn, her lips turned down slightly as she listened. “I know, Mama.”

“I loved my Mama and Papa very much. And my brothers. We had everything we ever wanted.” Dany took the girl’s small hand, tracing each little finger with the tips of her own, her eyes studying her own movements. “But one day, when I was ten and six, something very terrible happened. My Mama and Papa died.” Dany looked up, catching Naerys’s eyes. “Some very bad people did something awful to them. They were poisoned.”

“What’s poisoned?” The girl’s little chin began to tremble, as though she could feel her mother’s sadness.

Dany took a breath, her hands still playing with the girl’s. “It’s when you put something in someone’s food or drink, and it makes them very sick, or kills them.”

Naerys’s lips turned down even further, her eyes downcast. “That’s a very bad thing to do.”

Dany nodded, checking her gaze to Jon’s quickly, and he reached over and took her free hand, the knot in his chest easing only when her palm slid securely against his. “It is. And I was very afraid, when the raven came, and I learned my Mama and Papa were gone. And then another bad thing happened, and Uncle Rhaegar’s wife and daughter grew very sick.”

Naerys’ head shot up, her eyes wide. “Did someone poison them too, Mama?” Her brows knit together, concerned.

“Yes,” Dany confirmed, and Jon felt a flare of surprise in his own chest. The rest of the Kingdoms had been told it was illness, that took his aunt and cousin, but this was worse, far worse. It was no wonder, he thought to himself, that Rhaegar was so tormented. That cascade of death that had washed over the Dragon King would have broken others. “And Uncle Rhaegar was very, very sad in his heart.”

Naerys nodded slowly. “That is the very saddest thing I think I ever heard.”

“Uncle Viserys was afraid, too, and he worried that we were in very great danger. The people who did these bad things, he believed they wanted to kill him, too, and to take me and make me their prisoner.” The girl’s mouth dropped open, horrified.

“Oh, no, Mama.” He could see the girl’s fingers flex against her mother’s. “That is very bad to do.”

Jon saw a tear clinging to Dany’s lower lashes, even as she gave a small smile to the girl. “Yes, sweetling, it is. So Viserys decided we must run away. Uncle Rhaegar was so sad he could not talk to anyone, and Viserys was afraid he could not protect us if the bad people came.”

Jon looked at Dany’s profile, sucking in a hard breath. So that was how they came to be in Lys. He had wondered, but they’d been too busy losing themselves in each other, when they were alone, that he hadn’t had the will to stop and pepper her with all the questions that crowded his mind.

Dany sighed, and raised the girl’s hand, kissing it fondly, then letting it drop. “But Uncle Viserys, had an idea, he decided we must raise our own army, to fight the bad people who killed our Mama and Papa. So we went to a place called Lys, where people have hair just like ours, you see?” She flicked at a tendril of her hair, then the girl’s, and smiled. “And he said we could not tell anyone who we were, because the bad people might try to find us, next.”

Dany knelt, creamy skirts puddling as she bent before Naerys. “I was very afraid, and very sad in my heart, too. I had to trust my brother, but he told me many fibs. He thought he was helping, but there are bad people across the Sea as well, aren’t there?”

Naerys nodded soberly, peeking up at him then, and it was like a punch in the gut. If there was a bitter edge, in all the sweetness that had come to him so recently, it was this; It tormented him, all the time that had been lost, that the two people he treasured most had been without him for so long. Dany told him stories, in the night, bits and scraps that she could bear to repeat, but he had no doubt that there had been far more suffering than he had been told.

Perhaps she knew, and so she held back. One day, he would ask to know it all, but the wound was still to fresh, now, for both of them. Those tales, he reckoned, would be best told when these wars were done, when they had the power to ensure that Naerys would never suffer so again.

But still, he wanted to comfort the little girl, so he took her hand now, watching her face brighten as he did and feeling a softness well up in his chest that he didn’t know he possessed. He shifted over, sitting beside her, now, so that they could both listen as her mother spoke.

Dany’s smile was sweeter still, as she looked between the two of them, and began anew. “Can you guess what happened next, sweetling? Because it was not something bad, it was something very, very good.”

Naerys shook her head, at Jon’s side, eyes large and questioning, waiting.

“I was walking on the beach, and I was so lonesome, and sad. I missed my Mama and Papa very much, and I was so afraid that the bad people were going to find me, but do you know what I saw? I saw a boy, on the beach, and I thought he was very handsome.”

Naerys sucked in a tiny breath, with a start, and looked up at Jon. “Was it you, Papa?”

Jon nodded, grinning, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulder. “It was me. And do you know what? I was very scared, as well. Because bad people had already hurt me, and my Papa had to send me away, to a place they couldn’t find me.”

Naerys frowned at him, curiosity clear in her indigo eyes.

My mother’s eyes, he whispered to himself, but he dared not speak that aloud just yet.

“Were you very sad in your heart, too?”

Jon nodded again, gravely. “Oh, yes. I couldn’t even bring Ghost with me. I was all alone, until your Mama came one day and visited me.”

Naerys twisted, looking to where Ghost lay watching, her mouth agape. “No Ghost?” She sounded so horrified that Jon had to chuckle. No doubt she would find such prospects unbearable, as the white wolf had become her shadow as much as he was Jon’s, though he certainly never deigned to tell Jon any of the secrets he knew.

Jon clucked his tongue. “No Ghost,” he said, with exaggerated sadness. He reached over, taking Dany’s hand, pulling her to stand closer. “But when your Mama began to come see me, that made my heart very happy, and I wasn’t so sad anymore.”

The girl seemed to sag in relief. “That’s good. Mama makes my heart happy, too.”

“Prince Jon made my heart very happy,” Dany said after a lull, pressing into Jon as she stood before his seated form and stroking a loving hand along his jaw, “but you see, we were fibbing too, Naerys. Prince Jon didn’t know I was a Princess, and I didn’t know he was a Prince!”

Naerys’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. “You were keeping secrets!” She looked between her parents, seemingly scandalized. “But how come you didn’t stay with Papa? Didn’t he make your heart happy?”

Jon ignored the thrill that raced through him, every time she called him ‘Papa’, watching closely, instead, at the way Dany’s face crumpled. She was quiet for several moments, her cerulean eyes glassy when she finally answered.

“He made my heart so happy, sweetling. But the bad people found us, Uncle Viserys and I, and we had to leave. And Uncle Viserys told me many fibs. He told me Prince Jon had died. He made me leave my mother’s ring, and he set the house ablaze, so that if anyone found it they would think I was dead, too.”

Now Naerys looked almost comically confused. “But, Mama,” she breathed, “fire can’t hurt you.”

Dany’s lips twitched. “I know, my sweet.” She slid her eyes to Jon, for she had already told him of how she’d hatched those dragon eggs, her stomach swollen with his babe, in the flames of her Dothraki husband’s funeral pyre. “But Prince Jon didn’t.”

She raised her hand from Jon’s, and pulled the silver ring from her finger, holding it out for her daughter’s inspection. “And it was Prince Jon that found it.”

“And my heart was so sad, that day. I didn’t think my heart would ever be happy again.” His low voice made clear the pain he’d felt, the anguish it had been to think his Dany dead and gone. “But do you know what?”

“What?” Naerys was patting his back with her little hand now, at the sound of his remembered pain, and it was a far sweeter gesture than what he’d been accustomed to that he feared he might start bawling right there.

“Now,” he said, leaning close and cuffing a hand under her chin, “My heart is so happy that I don’t think it will ever be sad again.”

Naerys grinned widely, her nose wrinkling. “Because you found Mama again?”

Jon glanced towards Dany, nodding, beaming. “Oh, yes. Because I found your Mama. And,” he said, tugging at one of Naerys’s silver curls, “because I found you, too. I’m so sorry, that I was not here before. I didn’t know.” The emotions he’d been trying to hold back were threatening to break loose, his chest unbearably tight as he struggled at the very idea, that they had gone so long without knowing each other, that fate had been so unbearably cruel.

But fate had been kind, now, far kinder than it ever had dared before, and Naerys stood, gingerly, on the ledge. She hugged him tight, as she tended to do, and he let out the heavy breath he’d been holding as she whispered to him.

“It’s okay, Papa. Ghost told me. He said you were lost. But now you aren’t anymore. That’s what he said.” She patted his hair, like he did to Ghost, and he let out a watery chuckle. “Is that right?”

He nodded, as he couldn’t speak, his throat seized up like a vice, and he knew if he tried he might sob like a babe. He cut his eyes to Ghost, who had the gall to sit there, staring right back, a hint of challenge in those red eyes, as though he dared Jon to say he’d been wrong.

A thought struck him, and he shared a long, lingering look with Dany, her own eyes glassy as well, before he turned his attention back to his daughter. “Can I ask you something, Naerys?”

Here came another gap-toothed smile. “Yes, Papa.”

He glanced back to Ghost. “What does he sound like? When he talks to you?”

Naerys laughed, bright and merry, and clapped her hands. “Like this.” She scrunched her face up, and let out a low, growling voice. “No, little pup, don’t go so close to the water, I don’t want to swim!”

Dany let out a sharp laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth, then sidled up to Jon as they watched Naerys do her best approximation of his direwolf. “He sounds just as grumpy as you, my love,” Dany whispered in his ear, nudging playfully against his shoulder.

“So unkind,” he chided her quietly, and then Naerys interjected.

“Sometimes he tells me stories about the North, Papa. Ghost says there are big rocks that go all the way into the sky, and it is very cold, and it is so much ice it could last forever.” She seemed intrigued, and Jon knew, once they’d finished the tasks that lay ahead, that he wanted to take her there.

Dany seemed to share his desire, and she smiled, reaching out to tuck an errant curl behind their daughter’s ear. “Perhaps we can fly there, soon. And then you can see for yourself, yes?”

“Oh, yes!” Naerys trembled with excitement. “Yes, Mama I want to go. And Papa! Papa! I know what we can do!” She crowded against her mother and father, taking both their hands in one of hers. “Papa you can fly with me on Silverwing!”

She was thrilled to pieces, he could see it, and he couldn’t deny that the braver parts of his heart were in full agreement that it sounded a grand adventure. But there was another consideration, a much graver one, one he’d been distracted from when Missandei had charged into the council chambers.

There wasn’t much choice to it, really. He knew they were right, that all three dragons must fight, and their riders as well. And as much as fear clenched at his heart, at the thought of his small girl riding into the heart of the fray, he knew there was only one way he’d feel she’d be safe.

He narrowed his eyes, giving her a considering look. “It’s funny you should mention that,” he said, and reached down, picking her up and swinging her up onto his shoulders, one of her favorite games with him. She would pretend she was a giant, at times, and it was great fun, at least for a bit. He kept her hands in his, so she wouldn’t fall, and tilted his head up to look at her while she peered down at him. “Do you remember the bad people your Mama was talking about?”

Naerys nodded, her tongue caught between her teeth, frowning.

“Well,” Jon said, sparing a little glance at Dany, whose brows began to raise in comprehension and surprise. “We have to fight them, so they can’t hurt us anymore. And we have to use all our very best soldiers, and the dragons.”

“And Ghost?” Her high voice cut through the air, perking at the wolf’s ears, and Jon laughed.

“And Ghost, of course.” Jon peeked up again. “But your Uncle thinks that you should let Papa ride on your dragon with you, when we have to do our fighting.”

Naerys pondered this, squinting. “So I can keep you safe?”

Jon looked to Dany, and she looked right back, lips quirking up. She shrugged, as if to leave the answer up to him.

“Aye,” he said. “Do you think Silverwing will be alright with that?”

Naerys nodded emphatically. ‘Oh, yes, Papa. She knows that you are very nice, and she won’t let anything happen to you.” She glanced at her mother, then. “Do I get to make the fire, Mama? With Silverwing and Papa?”

Dany nodded, and came close enough to let her hand rest on the girl’s knee. She squeezed, her voice heavy and serious. “Yes. And I know you are learning how to be a warrior, but this will be very dangerous. And you must be very careful, and listen to your Papa when we do this. Can you promise me?”

“I promise, Mama.” She patted her hands against Jon’s dark curls, and smiled down at him. “I will be very safe.”

Dany looked between them, giving Jon a little wink and pinching the apple of his cheek lightly. “You’re such a soft touch, Jon.” She was surprised he’d given in, but surely, he knew, she’d expected he’d relent eventually.

He leaned over, carefully, and kissed her cheek, as chastely as he was capable. “You knew I’d give in,” he whispered.

“One way or another,” she murmured back, her eyes flashing with a sudden heat, and for a moment they simply stood, lost in that blaze together, until she seemed to remember herself. She cleared her throat, straightening, her cheeks flushing. “Well, then,” she said properly, chin tipped up, “let’s go tell Uncle Rhaegar that Papa has agreed, and see about some supper, yes?”

“Even my vegetables?” Her face twisted in dislike.

“Yes,” Jon and Dany chorused together, smiling indulgently at each other when their eyes caught and held. “All of them,” Jon continued, and they began to walk together, the three of them, back into the Keep.

“C’mon, Ghost,” Naerys yelled out. “You’d better come with us.” He knew what she meant to do, knew half the things she didn’t like would end up in his wolf’s stomach, but he didn’t mind a whit.

They felt like a little family, walking in, because that’s what they were, and for them he would fight forever.

\-----------

They practiced for weeks, as their armies left Dragonstone, bound for one of three locations. Some days, it was just Naerys and Jon, on Silverwing’s back, and while his first flight had found him clinging on for dear life, his eyes screwed tight, his throat raw from screaming, he had learned to love the experience.

Naerys spoke non-stop, about all the ways that Silverwing could fly, about what the dragon could do, about how happy it made her silver beast to carry Naerys on her back.

“She’s inside my heart, Papa. She will make her big fire on ALL the bad people, so we can be safe.” The girl’s assurance, as they dismounted, was a measure of solace to his own worried heart.

The danger was quite real, he knew.

Cersei Lannister had married a Baratheon, years ago, and so the Storm Lands fought for the lions. With their combined forces, they would be hard to beat, on land. Their numbers alone rivalled those of the Northern Armies and what remained of those in the Reach, and the other scattered Kingdoms who had already faced the Lannisters head-on.

But, Jon reminded himself, they didn’t have Dothraki screamers, and Ghiscari warrions, and they didn’t have dragons. They didn’t have stone-faced, hard Northern warriors, nor the Dornish, who would fight ‘til the death. The Knights of the Vale would ride, he knew, and the Riverlands stood in waiting.

Jon’s father awaited him in the Neck, and as they time to fight drew closer, he found himself itching for a battle.

But then his heart would tremble, and he would picture Dany atop her beast, or little Naerys on Silverwing, and he would be gripped by a sudden, vicious fear.

It was a fear he was coming to master, a fear he turned into an iron determination to win, at any cost.

It was the only way they would be safe. And even that was not promised.

\------------

The ground trembled as Silverwing landed, Naerys giggling at the way Jon clutched tight to the spiked horns along the dragon’s back, his teeth jarring in his mouth as they thundered to the ground.

He saw the Stark banners in the distance, heard the neighing and whinnying of their horses, and held out a hand to his daughter. He pointed with a black-gloved hand, to the sea of tents that occupied the spare dry ground to be found, in the swampy marshes of the Neck.

“See there?” Naerys nodded, fiddling with her braids a bit, nervously. “My Papa is just there. Let us go and greet him.”

She dragged behind, a bit, and Jon came to a halt just before they reached the copse of trees that housed the largest tent, the Stark Direwolf howling away on the side. “Papa?”

Jon crouched low, taking a moment to take stock of the girl’s nervous posture, the quick flitting of her eyes around them, the way she began to twist her hands together, just as her mother did. “Are you afraid?”

“What if he doesn’t like me, Papa?” It seemed so unlike the brave little warrior girl he knew, and he pulled her near, giving her a brief hug and a kind smile when he met her eyes again.

That’s nonsense, lass. You see, in the North, do you know what we like best? Do you know what our very favorite sort of person is?” He tipped his head, waiting expectantly for an answer she knew full well, after night after night of peppering him with questions about his people and his home, as he and Dany tried to coerce her to lay herself down and go to sleep.

“Warriors,” Naerys said quietly. “But I’m not really a warrior yet, am I, Papa? I’m still a little girl.”

Her shyness, her sudden worry, prompted a softness in his chest, but he let none of it show, instead trying to look as stern as he could. He jerked his chin towards Silverwing, who circled and tried to find a place large enough to bed down that didn’t result in her glistening trail dragging into the boggy swamp. At his back, he could hear a crowd rather, murmuring quietly and no doubt witnessing that their Prince had returned, with guests.

“Not a warrior, she says. Do you have a sword?” She nodded, and gestured to the thin blade that she wore in a little belt around her waist, a smaller version of the sword his sister Arya carried. But unlike Arya’s, this one was Valyrian steel, and keenly sharp, and the girl had needed only one reminder from him to take great care with such a blade.

“Aye, Papa.” He fought a smile at her agreement; She’d started trying to speak more like him, as of late, and it pleased him greatly, but now was not the time to show it.

He sucked his teeth for a moment, then gestured again towards Silverwing, this time with his hand. “And do you ride a dragon, Naerys? For only the bravest ride dragons, which you well know.”

Then it came, a tiny smile, her cheek showing a little dimple on the right. “Aye, Papa, I do.”

Jon nodded, sagely, then looked her straight in the eyes, serious and sober. “Now this is the most important question. Are you listening closely?” Another nod came. “Good. Are you willing to fight for your people? These people, your Uncles people, all the people who have been hurt by the ones we will fight tomorrow? Will you fight until you can’t anymore, even if you are tired, or hurt?”

She seemed so grave, for a girl so small and young, but she gave the question serious consideration, biting at her lip, nostrils flaring as she seemed to come to a decision. “Yes, Papa,” she said finally. “I will do that.” She set her lips in a firm little line, and for a brief, fleeting moment, Jon could see himself in her face, and it filled him with a warmth that he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of, after so long in the cold.

He stood, slowly, setting his hand atop her head and tipping her head up so she would look at him. “Then,” he proclaimed, “My Papa will think you are the best, and bravest warrior he’s ever seen.”

Naerys blinked at him, thinking. “Are you sure?”

“Aye,” he said, and tickled at the girl’s ribs, prompting her to squirm away, giggling. “I’m sure of it, because I *know* you are the best, and bravest warrior I’ve ever seen.” He held out his hand and she took it, holding tight. “Now let’s go find him. If Ser Davos has arrived before us, he and Ghost will be very happy to see we’ve made it.”

The mention of Ghost seemed to shake most of the remaining hesitancy from Naerys, and she smiled, tensing with anticipation. “Why didn’t you say so, Papa! Let’s go!”

\------------

The tent of the Winter King was surprisingly empty, save Jon’s father, and Ser Davos, and one pacing, skulking direwolf. Guards greeted Jon and his companion with formal dips of their chin, and held back the flap so the Prince and his charge might enter.

Eddard Stark was on his feet in seconds, rising from behind his writing desk, his sword Ice leaning against the wood, sheathed. He gave Jon a true, genuine smiling, crossing quickly to embrace his son, relief painting his features as father and son greeted each other for the first time in several moons.

“Ah, lad,” Eddard said fondly, “You’ve made it!” Naerys, Jon realized, had tucked herself partially behind his legs, hiding a bit, her shyness returning. The King seemed to notice, as well, and Jon saw his father’s eyes soften a bit as he glanced at the girl. “And this must be the Warrior Princess! The Dragon Rider!” Naerys kept her head down, shyly toeing her boot into the dirt. His father pressed on. “Ser Davos has been telling me all about you, lass.”

Ghost slinked over then, nosing at Naerys’s arm, licking at her cheek until she couldn’t help but laugh.

Jon’s father eased back, seeing the girl’s reticence, and seated himself behind his desk, content not to push her any further until she was ready to speak. “Ser Davos has been telling me all about you, too, Jon. It seems this marriage is a bit more,” he cleared his throat, sparing a knowing look at the Onion Knight, “welcome than we had first anticipated.”

Again, his father’s eyes strayed to Naerys, who was nose-to-nose with Ghost. Jon tried to see his father through the girl’s eyes, to see what it was that caused her to shy away, when she’d seemed to have summoned up some bravery in the open night air, moments before. No doubt, The King in the North looked a hard, stern man. His hair had grayed, as Jon had grown older, and the iron and bronze jagged crown that rested just above his brow had a brutal sheen.

Perhaps it was the heavy furs, that made the man look large and imposing. And, he realized, as his father stood again, slowly creeping closer to Jon’s daughter, Ned Stark had sorted that out for himself, too. The King dropped to a knee, stroking a hand along Ghost’s muzzle, just feet away from where Naerys had her face hidden in Ghost’s white fur.

“Did my son tell you that his sisters have wolves, also, Princess?” His father’s voice was easier, lighter than Jon remembered, and he wondered just how much Davos had told him about the truth of the girl, of who she really was.

The question perked Naerys up a bit, and she raised her face. “Really? Are they very big, like Ghost?”

Jon hadn’t had occasion to see his father smile, but it came on his face then, something soft, amused. “Oh, Aye,” he said grandly, “but not quite as big as Ghost. He’s the biggest, and the strongest.”

A small hand pushed through Ghost’s fur again, and Naerys straightened her head. “And the nicest. He is my very dear friend.”

His father looked at him, with a wink, then back at the girl. “Oh, I have no doubt. Ghost is very good at choosing friends.” There was sparse light, and Naerys’ face remained hidden in shadow, and when he asked his next question Jon knew his father had been told the whole truth, gray eyes so like Jon’s keenly focused on the girl’s face. “Will you come closer? My eyes are old, and I should like to see you in the lamp light. I’ve never seen a real dragon rider before, you know.”

First one step, then another, and Naerys had pulled away from Ghost and Jon, and stood before the Winter King, the orange glow shining on her every feature now.

But it wasn’t until she raised her eyes, and looked the King full in the face, that the King in the North saw what he must have been searching for.

Jon had never, in all his living memory, seen his father shed a tear. Never. Many called his father cold, but Jon knew that it wasn’t that the man did not feel. He simply did not show it, he hid it all behind his stoic mask. Perhaps, in his quarters, his father had cried aplenty. The Gods had given him plenty of reasons to. But never in front of Jon.

Now, though, it was as though the man could no longer keep himself in check. He gasped aloud, when he looked into the girl’s eyes, then went so pale Jon wondered if he might faint dead away, or be sick. Eddard Stark gaped, in wonder, in awe, grief-stricken and stupefied, all at once. He wondered if the man was going to begin weeping like a babe.

And as though she knew what shook him so, Naerys stepped closer still, and even from her side, Jon could see her give his father a shy, tentative smile. “What are their names? The other wolves? Are they white, too?”

The King in the North let out a choked laugh, his eyes glassy and wet, but he seemed intent on gathering himself, though his eyes never left Naerys’ own. He stroked a hand through the salt and pepper gray of his beard, cocking his jaw as he studied Jon’s daughter. “Oh, now let’s see. Sansa’s wolf, well, her name is Lady, and she’s a lovely gray.” Naerys’s eyes lit up, and grew wide, and his father grinned, enchanted. “And Arya’s wolf, oh, she is a wild one. She is brown and gold, truly a beautiful beast. But none are so grand as your dear friend Ghost.”

Naerys smiled, as well, and peeked back at Jon, seeking his approval. “Papa, can I show the King my dragon now?”

Jon nodded, a queer burning in his heart, at the sight of his father laid low, at his wee daughter wanting nothing more than to show off her own mythical beast, her hesitancy gone, swept clean away.

“’Course,” he said, clearing his throat gently, wondering at the own warmth in his eyes. His father stood as well, fixing Jon with a pointed look, swallowing hard as he passed.

“You and I will talk later, my son.” Then he turned to follow Jon’s daughter, out into the night, leaving Jon with only Davos and Ghost as company.

After a few moments of silence, Ghost nudged his way through the tent flaps, and Davos slid his eyes towards Jon. “I told him,” Davos managed, seeming rather amused, but a little guarded as he eyed Jon, no doubt wondering if Jon would be cross, “about the girl.”

“Yes, Davos,” Jon said dryly, rolling his eyes at the man and huffing out a quick laugh. “I managed to sort that out.” He shoved through the tent flaps himself, intent on witnessing his father’s first introduction to a real, living dragon.

\----------

“Jon.” He looked away, tearing his eyes from the starry night sky, to see his father approaching. Inside Jon’s own tent, Naerys slept fitfully, with Ghost nearby. She’d been hard to get settled, this night, saying her stomach felt ‘swirly’ and she couldn’t stay still. Jon knew what she meant. His own gut felt as though he’d spent weeks at sea, pitching and turning as he thought on the morrow.

“Father.” Jon took a sip of ale, noting the hitch in his father’s chest, as he studied Jon’s face, the way his eyes flitted towards the tent, no doubt pondering the one who lay within.

“She’s a fine little lass, that girl. Brave little thing.” The King blew out a breath, suddenly a bit unsure, hesitant. “Did Davos tell you, Jon?” After a beat of silence, he stepped closer, eyes imploring, the older man’s voice growing thick with emotion that could no longer be contained. “Did he tell you about the girl’s eyes?”

Slowly, Jon nodded, a stubborn irritation flaring, his jaw setting. “Aye, Father, he did. And Arthur, as well.”

Eddard smiled, just a bare twitching of his lip, and in the light of a guttering torch nearby Jon could see his eyes growing damp again. “Aye, no doubt about that. I reckon Arthur must be about ready to skin me alive, after all these years.” The man’s throat bobbed, and he fell silent again, but whether it was because he couldn’t speak, or wouldn’t, Jon couldn’t tell.

“I wish you had told me about her, Father. I wish I had known these things, you know. The exact shade of her hair, the brightness of her smile,” now it was Jon who swallowed heavily, his gaze holding his father’s, “the color of her eyes.” He was angry, he realized, angry for the boy he’d been, so long ago, who’d been desperate for scraps of knowledge about the woman who’d given her life for his. “It should’ve been you, who told me those things. The one who loved her.”

In any other circumstances, Jon thought he might’ve passed out from shock at the sight of a tear trailing down his father’s cheek and into his beard, but this night he just watched.

“It was a thousand knives in my throat, every time I tried to speak about her. It hurt too much, lad. I’m sorry, Jon. I can’t tell you how much.” Furtively, he wiped away a tear, looking away, ashamed to meet Jon’s eyes. “You’re right. She was your mother, she was my wife, and I ought to have told you about her.” A hand fell heavily on his shoulder. “I can’t change the past, lad, but if you like, we can talk about her now. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Jon stared into his father’s gray eyes, so like his own, and felt his anger fall away, slowly, ebbing away in waves, like the tide. He knew, in his heart, that his father spoke truly. He’d felt that pain as well.

But not anymore.

There were no holes in his heart, anymore. It was full, and he meant to keep it that way.

Jon nodded, earning a wistful smile from his father, who cleared his throat and straightened, looking about and no doubt hoping none were bearing witness to this rare display of emotion. “Good. I’m going to fetch us some ale, and then we shall talk.”

Jon watched his father’s back as he made his way back to his own tent, no doubt to bring several flagons, and let his mind drift, back to where it always centered, the hub of everything, the axis around which his life had turned since the day he’d met her, really.

Dany.

He hoped she was resting. He hoped she was well. He hoped she was ready to wage her own battle, tomorrow, with her armies circling and ready to pin the Lannister forces that had gathered in the Reach, about to march on Dorne.

His fingers drifted up to his neck, to the thin silver chain that rested there, once again, and he drew out her silver ring, letting the dim light dance along each line and curve. They had been well-sated, feasted to their fill on each other, when she’d slipped the chain around his neck. And when he’d seen what lay upon it, had turned to look up at her questioningly, she’d just laughed, and kissed the corners of his mouth.

Then she’d smiled sweetly, and held his chin in her hands, her fingers like iron.

“Bring it back to me, my love,” she’d said, an order, a plea, a promise.

“I will,” he’d answered, and taken her in his arms again, swearing to himself it would not be the last time.

He lifted the ring to his lips and kissed it. He’d done this so many times, over the years, but this was different. Everything was different. Jon smiled to himself, thinking of the little lass who lay in his tent, no doubt dreaming with his wolf, this impossible little girl who rode dragons and called him Papa.

And he thought of her mother, the one he loved most, the one he’d thought lost forever, and the love that seemed to pulse through him, for her, with every beat of his heart.

Jon felt that persistent fear, that nagging sense of impending doom, that he was about to lose everything he’d just gained, fade away, just as his anger had. He wasn’t going to lose anything, not anymore. He simply wouldn’t allow it.

Besides, he thought with a chuckle, casting his eyes to the perimeter of the camp, where Silverwing slept, scales glittering in the moonlight, they had bloody dragons. None could stand against them now, not for long.

And so it was that he was still smiling when his father returned, a flagon in each hand, gesturing with one to the stumps that had been brought near for them to sit upon.

“Now,” his father said with a sigh, the beginnings of a fond, sad smile on his lips. “Let’s talk about your mother.”


	7. Epilogue: Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little (haha, it's 17k, wtf is wrong with me ::sobs::) epilogue to our tale.
> 
> We have Dany's POV here, as Jon and Daenerys journey north to add one more Kingdom into the fold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely didn't intend for this to end up as long as it did. But here we are. I can't look at it anymore, so I'm posting it, because it's making my eyes hurt. Smut, family feels, babies, all that shit, it's all here. Enjoy. Let me know if you did. Or don't. Either way is cool, we're all busy people here :).
> 
> Back to my hard drive full of fics, we'll see which one is ready for posting next. On Twitter I mentioned I had an avalanche of fic to unleash, and I definitely wasn't joking. At this point it's just a race to see what I feel moved to work on next. Each fic kinda requires a different sort of headspace, and my family giving me some FUCKING TIME ALONE TO WORK ON IT!! DAMN YOU CORONAVIRUS THIS QUARATINE BLOOOOOOOWS
> 
> Okay, enough of that. Hope you enjoy, stay safe out there, folks.
> 
> (P.S. - unbetaed as my shit usually is. Maybe I'll clean it up eventually. I normally manage to keep it at least comprehensible, so fingers crossed)

The sun was setting, the sky painted in pink and gold and violet, when Rhaegar joined her, his hands settling firmly on the cool gray stone as he came to stand beside Dany atop the parapet.

“You will leave tomorrow.”

He kept his voice even, her brother, but he could not hide the sadness in his voice.

It had lessened in the moons that had passed since they’d defeated the Lannisters, and set about their task of uniting all the Kingdoms of Westeros under one banner, one Throne. They had done just that; gathered every crown, one by one, amassing quite a collection that they kept safe in a heavy trunk in the chambers she and Jon shared.

Rhaegar’s had been the first, a crown of silver and rubies that Dany had claimed for her own.

And the Northern crown, the Crown of Winter, would be their last.

“Yes,” Dany answered, then blinked suddenly, realizing that her brother’s words indicated his absence, on the final leg of the journey they’d begun together. “You will not join us?” A faint pang of hurt echoed in her heart, that he would not be with them, as they went to Winterfell, but as she rolled it over in her mind, she supposed she could understand.

That was where his love was born, the love he’d lost, and that was a grief she had been well-acquainted with, or so she’d thought.

But Rhaegar surprised her, giving her a slight smile, his face morphing not into its customary melancholic mask, but one that looked decidedly more nervous. “My road, I think, leads South now.” When he said nothing more, eyes darting self-consciously everywhere *but* her face, Dany felt her lips twitch.

A sly smile spread, and when Rhaegar finally spied it he sighed heavily, hands rising in surrender.

“You’re going to Dorne,” Dany replied, biting at her bottom lip hard to keep a happy laugh from bubbling free. She had not missed the flirtation that had passed between her brother and the widowed Martell Queen. Elia had been rather overt in her interest in Rhaegar, and while he had remained ever-stoic, Dany had hoped, secretly, that perhaps something more might grow.

She and Jon would rule, now, and it was a desire that welled deep within her that perhaps, without the weight of a Kingdom on his shoulders, her brother might be free to find some happiness for himself.

Elia, for her part, had presented them with the Dornish crown with little protest, for Jon’s mother had been a dear friend to her, in childhood, and she had proclaimed that while Dorne would bow to no one, they would gladly see a Son of Dorne, a son of the sands, on the Throne.

Daenerys had not taken this as a slight. She understood well enough how this game was played. Each Kingdom would have their own reasons for bending the knee. Highgarden had already begun singing Dany’s praises, the Old Queen of Thorns firm in her support of a Targaryen rule. She was rather indifferent as far as Jon had been concerned, and like Dany, Jon had been rather non-plussed.

All he cared about was protecting his family, he had whispered in the night, as they’d lain together in their rooms at Highgarden. So long as their knees bent, he’d said against her skin, kissing his way down her body, he cared little as to who they preferred.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, shifting on his feet rather awkwardly. “Yes,” he answered finally, “I will go to Dorne. But I wished to speak to you, before I do. About Dragonstone.” He sucked in a breath, eyes of amethyst catching hers. “It’s yours, Dany.”

Dany frowned, hand pushing back stray silver tendrils from her face as she gazed at her brother. She shook her head. “Rhaegar, you are the Warden of Dragonst—”

He held up a hand. “Just listen. I’ve thought long on this, and it seems to me there is no need for this little island to be a separate Kingdom any longer. Make it your home, your seat of power. Rule from here. There will no safer place for our steel than the home of the King and Queen of Westeros. No better guard than your dragons. No place more peaceful for your family to grow.” He quirked a smile at her, watching her carefully. “And perhaps you can maintain a bit of privacy, if you wish it. You can hold court here. This place is close enough that the journey by boat is not so arduous, and with Balerion at your command you may seek out those who cannot make the voyage to you.”

It wasn’t a terrible idea.

Not at a first, cursory pass in her mind.

She squinted at Rhaegar in the dying light. “I will think on it. Discuss it with Jon.”

“Good.” Rhaegar nodded firmly, pleased. “There are too many ghosts here for me to stay, sister. I need to a new start, before I am too old to learn to love again.”

“In Dorne?” At her pointed look her eldest brother began to blush, and now she couldn’t fight her laugh, nudging him with her shoulder.

“In Dorne,” he repeated. “But I do hope you will visit me, bring my niece, and Jon. I’ve come to rather enjoy his company.”

Perhaps it was for the best, but she knew it might take time for the sense of loss she already felt, at his prospective absence, to fade. She’d only just found him again, she thought. If she were alone, she knew, he would stay by her side, but that was no longer her life. She had more love now that she’d ever hoped to possess, and she could not begrudge him a chance at his own.

Still, she couldn’t help but needle him a bit.

She threaded an arm around his waist loosely, narrowing her eyes as she craned her neck up. “However shall I manage my own affairs without you sticking your nose into them?”

Rhaegar snorted, and let his own arm lay atop her shoulders. “Ahh, sister,” he sighed, sounding far more content that she ever remembered, “I think you shall manage just fine.”

\--------------

Naerys had pled desperately for Jon to see her off to bed that night, and so Dany retreated to their chambers, indulging in a long, leisurely bath on her own. Jon usually wished to join her, and that was most pleasing, but in his absence she could enjoy the waters while they still steamed with a heat far too intense for his pale Northern skin.

Her love for Jon had only grown over the years, in the time they had been parted, when she’d thought him dead, a lie from Viserys’s viperous tongue. Had she been told it was possible to love him more, she would have claimed it impossible.

But she did, and each time she saw him in the training yard with her little dragon girl, when they whispered to each other as they dined and he cajoled her into eating her food, when they traipsed about the Keep with Naerys perched atop Jon’s strong shoulders, laughing together, she only loved him more.

It was far more than she’d ever hoped to find, when she’d returned to these shores, knowing she must wed this Northern Prince, her heart in tatters and shreds, worried for her daughter in her absence. All for naught, she’d found, and she let herself sink into the hot waters with a small laugh, smiling to herself as she trailed her fingers through the water, and let herself remember.

\-------------

_Her heart was in her throat, as Balerion thundered to the ground, the cliffs shaking under his great weight, black wings folding back and then down to allow her to climb down._

_Rhaegar was waiting, and Ser Arthur as well, their faces lit by brilliant smiles, but it was the small girl who streaked forward, unafraid and crying out to her, that she had yearned for most._

_“MAMA!” All else was swept away as slim arms circled her legs, her daugther’s face pressed tight against her side, and tears filled her eyes even as she grinned widely at the feel of Naerys’s nearness. She knelt, so that she could embrace the girl fully, pressing urgent kisses against her tightly braided hair, her forehead, her cheeks, all as the girl giggled in delight._

_“Oh, my sweetling, I missed you so. Are you well?” She tried to speak as best she could around the kisses she peppered on her daughter’s face, until Naerys finally squirmed away, eyes wide and excited._

_“Oh, yes, Mama, I am very well!” She was near-giddy, this child of hers, the dearest thing she had in all the world, and she smiled warmly at her brother, gladdened to see Missandei was there as well, just to his side. “I’m so glad you’re back!”_

_She hugged her daughter tightly, once more, a firm embrace, for as long as the girl could bear it, but her excitement seemed too great to be contained, and before long Naerys was pulling away again. “I wanted to have Ghost here, too, but Uncle said that wouldn’t be proper.”_

_Daenerys squinted, puzzled, her eyes flying to where her brother stood. It was odd, for him to look so amused, but he did, and he shared an odd look with Arthur before nodding. “Yes, I thought some introductions ought to wait ‘til a bit later.”_

_“Oh, Mama, you shall love Ghost. He is the very sweetest creature in the whole wide world, except for Silverwing. He’s not even afraid of Silverwing, Mama, isn’t that lovely?” She chuckled at her daughter’s rhapsodic happiness, but her own confusion was mounting._

_“Who is Ghost?” She posed the question to the trio who stood watching the reunion between mother and daughter, but it was Missandei who answered, something mysterious and knowing on her friend’s face._

_“He is a Direwolf. Belonging to the Northern Prince, your betrothed, Your Grace.” Though she wished otherwise, a cold shudder coursed through her at the answer. So, he had come, this Prince Jonnel of House Stark. She had agreed to this, before she’d left, had seen the value in the match, had been swayed by the assurances of both her brother and the Prince’s uncle that he was a good man, one that she need not fear in such an agreement._

_Still, her misgivings had lingered. His name alone stung her heart, so close to her only love, the one she’d had then lost on the shores of Lys. Naerys was all that remained, her only piece of her sweet Jon, the part she could always have, though he was dead and gone. She forced her lips into a smile, and ruffled her daugther’s hair. “A Direwolf, is it? I thought they were extinct.”_

_Naerys just laughed, but her face grew solemn, suddenly, and she grasped Dany’s cheeks in her small hands. “Oh, no, Mama, he is very real. And he is my very dearest friend. The Prince lets him come with me to my lessons, and sometimes Ghost comes and sleeps with me in my chambers. For if he is scared, you see?”_

_“Ahhh.” Dany nodded sagely. “That is very wise.” She took Naerys’s hands in her own, and held them tightly between their bodies. “And what do you think his master, then? This Prince that I have promised to marry?”_

_It was this answer she desired, more than any assurances by Rhaegar, or Arthur. She had found Naerys to be a very good judge of character, even for one so young, and she tipped her head to the side curiously, watching her daughter’s face carefully for any sign of concern or worry._

_Naerys smiled, the deep purple of her eyes sparkling in the sun as she squeezed Dany’s hands. “I like him very much, Mama. He is very nice, and he is teaching me to be a warrior, did you know that? Uncle said he could.”_

_She checked her gaze to Rhaegar, who nodded stoically. “Is that so?” She was not opposed to the idea, but she was surprised that her brother had allowed a stranger to bear weapons around her daughter, let alone teach her to wield them._

_Arthur laughed, as Rhaegar gave a measured reply. “It seemed a valuable way to pass the time, as we waited for you, sister. And I daresay, the Prince was uniquely qualified for the task. His father has told me many times of how he trained his own sister with blade and bow.”_

_She felt her brows rise in surprise. “Is that a common thing, in the North?” She felt her concern beginning to trickle away, replaced slowly by a growing, gnawing interest._

_Arthur smiled. “They’re warriors, in the North, Your Grace. And the Princess Arya is likely as fearsome as her brother, by now, from the tales I’ve heard. The Prince has taught your daughter well.”_

_Dany stood, slowly, entreating Missandei silently with her eyes to follow as she took her daugther’s hand in hers and began to make for the Keep. “I should like to speak with my daughter, before we meet further, Rhaegar. And I fear I must refresh myself after such a journey.”_

_“Of course,” Rhaegar said smoothly, hands clasped before him. “The Prince will have audience with us later in the day, if that pleases you.”_

_Dany let out a quiet, shaky breath, dismissing the sudden dampness of her palms, trying to seem unaffected at the notion. She had given her word, and there was no going back now. “That suits me fine,” she said, and nodded in parting to both Rhaegar and Arthur, letting Naerys pull her towards dark stone of their home as Missandei took up position beside her._

_She looked between the two faces, once they were a fair distance away. “Now, then,” she said quietly. “I should like to hear all about this Prince, and what you have been up to while Mama has been away, alright?”_

_\-----------_

_Naerys had nattered on endlessly about this Prince Jonnel, extolling every virtue she could imagine the man had, and Daenerys began to wonder what was true, and what was merely the fabrication of a lonely child’s mind, by the time the girl had been lured away with the promise of lunch._

_In the blessed silence that fell after the girl’s departure, Daenerys turned to Missandei, who was pulling several gowns from a wardrobe, shaking the skirts free and laying them on Dany’s bed for her perusal._

_With a hand on the other woman’s forearm, Daenerys stilled her motion._

_“You are *my* very dearest friend,” Dany said, pulling Missandei by the hand and leading her to sit before the fire. Seating herself as well, she let her fingers twist and dig into the fabric of her thick coat. “Tell me true; How much of what Naerys says is real?”_

_Missandei studied her silently for several long, endless moments, then, just barely, her lips quirked upwards in a smile. “Would you believe that near all of it is true?” With a chuckle, Missandei squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I have taken great care to observe them, together, even when the Prince believes they are alone. He is very kind to her, Your Grace. Very patient. He has a good way with her, I would say.”_

_Dany leaned back, a relieved sigh escaping, though fear still twisted her stomach into knots. “That pleases me.”_

_Missandei sipped from a goblet before responding, her eyes on the dancing flames. “Ser Arthur has shared with me, stories of the Prince’s childhood. His father remarried when he was very young, it seems.” Missandei’s eyes flicked towards Dany, full of an understanding sort of sadness. “The Prince did not have a happy youth, because of it. His new mother was not kind, not at all.”_

_Dany looked away, pondering this. It had stirred a more ominous suspicion inside her, that this stranger would be so overwhelmingly kind, and it had brought forth the worst sorts of thoughts, the sort that led to her burning him alive beneath Balerion’s flames. But this, this she could understand. He must be kind, in truth, that he would not visit upon her daughter the wounds he had suffered himself._

_She relaxed, but just barely._

_Missandei would not have it, it seemed, could see the tension in Dany’s shoulders, and drew Dany’s hand into her lap, grasping it tightly. “I think he would be very kind to you, as well. If you permit him to, if you can allow it.”_

_Her friend sighed, and brought her other hand to glance her knuckles across Dany’s cheek fondly. “I have heard other tales, as well, of this Prince you will marry. He has known his own suffering, his own loss. I think that perhaps you two would be well-matched. It is within you, to love again, this much I believe.”_

_Daenerys swallowed back the lump that rose in her throat. She wished she shared her friend’s faith, but she feared that part of her was dead and gone, with Jon. But she could hope that Missandei was correct, couldn’t she? Perhaps it was time to let go of him, if she could manage it. Perhaps she could let another into her heart, what remained of it._

_“Is there anything else you would tell me of him?”_

_A mischievous glint arose then, in Missandei’s amber eyes, and she smiled widely as she sipped against from her wine. “Well,” she said, rather primly, “I suppose there is something else you might find of interest.”_

_Dany raised a brow, running her tongue across her teeth as Missandei cleared her throat gently but said no more. “Come now,” she entreated teasingly, “no need for such coyness. Tell me.”_

_With a devious smile, Missandei leaned closer. “Well, I don’t believe it would be incorrect for me to say you will find him rather easy to look upon.”_

_She nearly choked on her mouthful of wine, an unbidden laugh rising when she finally cleared the liquid. “I should hardly think myself concerned with his appearance,” she said, with a haughty lift of her chin, but she was hardly fooling herself, and certainly not fooling her friend, who just stared at her knowingly._

_“Naturally,” Missandei said dryly. “But all the same, I think you will find him pleasing.”_

_Daenerys scoffed lightly, but still smiled, rising and pulling Missandei with her. “Well that remains to be seen, I think.” She took a steadying breath, straightening her spine and willing herself to be prepared for whatever awaited her with this audience. She looked amongst the options that lay on her bed, pondering the impression she wished to make. Fingering the silky skirt of a sea-green gown, she shook her head. She would not be soft, not this day. If it was warriors that dwelt in the North, that’s what she would great him as._

_And she would hope, would allow it to dwell within her now, that perhaps she could see in him what the others had. Perhaps, one day, she could love him. It might not yet be, but for the first time in so very long, she found herself wishing to try._

_\------------_

_Prince Jonnel of House Stark refused to meet her eyes. It was odd, yes, but she remembered Missandei’s words, and cautioned herself that he was merely as damaged as she was. He carried himself more like a warrior than a Prince, each step executed with military precision, his spine stiff and straight, though he kept his head lowered._

_She found herself intrigued by him, as much as the sight of the dark-haired Northerner stirred the loss in her soul, that aching wound that had never healed._

_She found herself desperately hoping she would not call him by another name, a slip of the tongue, his given name so very close, after all._

_But when her booted heels carried her down the steps, and closer to him, she knew something far greater was at work._

_Near enough to look into his eyes, she was certain, though she felt her palms grow numb with shock, her lips as well, words dying on her tongue as she could do no more but look at him. She knew those eyes. He was taller, and broader, his voice deeper, and his clean-shaven face was a mere memory now, hidden beneath the short, dark hair of the beard that graced his jaw and cheeks._

_It was his eyes, her heart screamed to her, though her mind insisted she was wrong, she had to be. He was dead, and she was only seeing what she wished to see._

_“Dany,” he whispered, when that steel gray gaze met hers, and she was lost. He blurred, his image softening at the edges as tears filled her eyes, as she recoiled physically, stepping back. ‘It’s him, it’s him,’ her mind began to chant, followed swiftly by a refrain filled with denial of what her eyes showed her to be true._

_It can’t be, she chanted back, silently, even as he questioned her again, as his voice gruffed out that blessed, cursed name, that only a few had ever called her._

_She barely heard what his Hand said, lost in the gray seas of his eyes, and she knew._

_“Jon?” Her whisper seemed to carry around the room, and if she was wrong the Gods could take her now, because it was *him*, she was certain. “Jon Snow?”_

_That flare of recognition in his eyes, his own awe and disbelief, sealed it firmly in her mind, and she was in his arms, even as she spoke once more, helpless to the tears that streaked her cheeks now. Every beat of her heart, heavy in her ears, clamored that she must hold him, claim him, keep him close, or he would slip away between her fingers, just a figment of the past._

_But as she buried her face against his chest, smelled the scent of him, smell that was solidly him, she felt her resolve give way. She was glad for his strong arms around her, as her knees felt as fragile as glass, near shattering, confusion and joy and such sweet, unbearable relief coursing through her._

_Home, she thought. This is home._

_She felt so scattered, even as they spoke, the only reality that mattered being the one that lay beneath her palms, his heart racing against her fingertips, the truth of him deep in his eyes._

_He loved her, still. And she loved him._

_And she vowed, in that moment, that she would never lose him again._

_\------------_

The snick of the door latch brought her back to the present, and then he was there, her apprentice smuggler, her wayward Prince, her King. He had been returned to her for six moons, her husband for four, and yet, still, each time he saw her it was as if it was the first time, all over again.

He backed against the door to the small chamber, closing off their sleeping quarters from view, hunger growing and sharpening his features as he leaned his back to the wood and watched her.

“I have fortuitous timing, I think,” he drawled, pushing away and hastily loosening his gambeson, tossing the dark leather aside as his steps began to lead him closer. With a wicked grin, he pulled his tunic over his head, chest bared in the light of the scattered candles, his eyes sweeping the length of her body with such lust that in this, too, it was as if he had never gazed upon her before.

Her toes curled against the lip of the copper tub, and she reclined, breasts barely emerging from the surface of the still-heated water as she let her dripping arms rest on either side. “Is that so?”

“Oh, aye, Dany,” he growled, guttural and low, and he sat himself upon a nearby bench, stripping off his boots quickly and stockings as well, hands falling to the laces of his trousers as he watched her with starving, stormy eyes. “’Tis no sight finer than this one, I think.” He cocked his chin towards the water, still noticing the faint hint of steam. “You going to cook me alive in there?”

Dany laughed, waving him closer with one hand as she watched his progress, heart beating faster as he finally rid himself of the rest of his clothing in a flurry of practiced motion. “I think it is safe. I should hate for you to melt.”

Jon chuckled and approached the rear of the tub, waiting for her to shuffle forward to allow him room to slip in behind her. She already knew what he would do, as they did this often enough, but she savored these quiet moments with him, these things she thought she’d never do, like sharing a bath, as much as all the other hours spent in his arms.

He climbed in, and though it was clear enough by the stiff length of his cock pressed against her back as she settled against him that he desired her, he made no move to take things further, not yet. He would, no doubt, or she would. It varied, but it was inevitable how this night would end, and she found her smile growing as she tipped her head back to rest against his shoulder. He returned the look warmly, his hands trailing down her arms to wrap around her waist as his knees bent and bracketed her thighs, pale islands of flesh surrounded by the lapping, sloshing water that slowly stilled.

For a while, they were content to simply be, to let their flesh be reminded of the other’s, only an occasional murmur or hum as she let her palms slide up and down his thighs, and he grazed a knuckle absently against the full curve of her breast.

“What are you thinking?” It was Jon who finally broke the peaceful quiet, pressing a kiss to her temple as he gazed down at her.

He’d freed his bound curls, and they surrounded his head in a dark halo as she stared up at him, worrying her lip again as her hands stilled their motion. She sighed, allowing the world to intrude yet again. “Rhaegar came to see me this evening. He has given over Dragonstone to me. He will go South, now, and make a home there. In Dorne.”

She saw the muscle in his jaw ticking, just barely, through the cropped dark hair of his short beard, and she pressed a finger against it, tickling his skin as he thought. “That’s good, isn’t it? Elia seemed rather taken with him, if I recall.”

She pressed her lips together tightly. “It is,” she said slowly, tracing her finger along his cheek. “But he thinks we ought to rule from here. From Dragonstone. Make this our seat, hold court here, all of it, everything.” The arm wrapped around her middle tightened, slightly, and she let her other hand rest against it, playing against his flesh as she thought. “What do you think?”

“Hmmmm.” His considering hum rumbled against her back from deep in his chest, and his knuckle grazed a bit more firmly against her breast, just glancing against her nipple this time, making her bark arch into him. “I think it would be good for him. I don’t believe it is too late for him to take some joy in life, again. And if it is to be found in the South, then to the South he must go.”

Dany gave a tiny smile, leaning up to press a cheek to his neck, just above his collar bone. “Yes, I agree,” she mused, “but I meant about ruling. Here.”

Jon raised his head from his study of her, looking about the large, grand bathing chambers that had been given them, glancing at the door that led to a vast bedchamber and sitting rooms. Rhaegar had given over the chambers that had long since been abandoned, since his first wife and daughter had been lost, bidding them that they ought to have chambers fit for a King and Queen.

“I am very fond of this place,” Jon finally said quietly, head tipping down again to meet her eyes. “But the truth is, wherever you go, there I shall be as well. A shack, a manor, a Keep, I care little in that regard.” He punctuated the declaration by claiming her lips with his, a teasing kiss that he surely knew would only inflame her, the flick of his tongue against the seam of her lips making her moan as he pulled away. “As long as you and our little lass are with me, I shall be glad to be anywhere. But this place,” he nodded, casting eyes about once more, “this place is special to me, this is true.”

He smiled at her so sweetly, then, that she found she didn’t need to ask why. She knew.

It was here they had found each other again. It was here he had learned he was a father. It was here that he, that they, had found joy in each other.

“Then here we shall stay, when we return from our visit North. We shall send ravens to our Wardens, alert them of our plans.” With that settled she felt the last of her tension melt away, but the barest shift in his own features caught her attention. If she had not committed his face to memory, held it close to her broken heart for so very long, she might have missed it, but his face had fallen, just a hint. “Now you tell me what *you* are thinking, my darling. Are you troubled?”

It was Jon’s turn to sigh, and avert his eyes, and at his discomfort she twisted, rising to her knees and shifting so that they were face to face. With wet hands she captured his cheeks, bringing his gaze back to her, holding gently, but firmly. “What is it?”

Jon shook his head slightly, his hands dipping into the water to grasp at her waist and begin to knead. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just a bit worried about this trip North.”

Her brow wrinkling in concern, she leaned in, her damp hair coiling against his chest as she pressed closer to him. “Why? What have we to fear in your home?”

“In the North,” he began, frowning mightily, “I fear they have rather outdated views in some areas. My father couldn’t be prouder of Naerys. From the ravens I have received he has done little but sing the praises of the little Dragon Princess and her field of fire since the day we did battle.”

Dany’s head tipped to the side, as she waited, because this was surely not it. “But,” she prompted, sliding her right hand around to cup the back of his neck.

“But if I hear even the barest word as to the circumstances of my daughter’s birth, Dany, I do not know if I can refrain from skinning my steel and running through the first man who dares.” A hard bitterness flickered across his face as the notion, his body tensing. “I want us to be done with war, but I will not allow anyone to speak ill of her. She is my daughter, my blood, and we are wed, truly. I will have her seen as any other trueborn is.” Though he was born in the ice and snows, there was fire in his eyes, now and she found it did little to dampen her desire, only served to stoke the blaze that seemed to burn within her constantly.

“I do not think your father would hear such, either, would he?”

Jon huffed out a breath. “No, I do not. But I think it best to warn you ahead of time, Dany. I’ll not hesitate to shed the blood of any who seek to harm her. If they would speak ill of her it would be to hurt her, and I will not have it.” An odd twist of misery took his face. “I couldn’t protect her before, or you, but I will now. Until I draw my last breath.”

“I see,” she breathed out. Had she ever loved this much? This fully? She thought her heart would burst with it, and she smiled tenderly at him as she resumed tracing the lines of his face. “Let us hope, then, that your people are as wise as their new King is, yes?”

She kissed him, once, then again, and again, each deeper than the one before. Suddenly, she was well and truly flush against him, between his spread thighs, nipples rubbing against the firm wall of his chest as his hands ventured down her back, one anchoring at her hip, the other reaching to palm the swell of her arse. “And if they aren’t,” she whispered against his lips, beginning to pant with the want coursing through her, “then it shall be your steel, or my fire, my sweet. That I can promise.”

He growled against her, words escaping him, and claimed her mouth forcefully, hands gripping tight and his tongue spearing between her lips to slide against hers. Water began to slosh, splashing and escaping the copper walls that contained it, and finally he pulled away, only to stand rapidly, his hands on her forearms as he drew her up as well.

“C’mere,” he urged heatedly, helping her step from the tub and grabbing for a wrap to absorb the water from her damp body. Picking her up, he maneuvered them from the room, tossing her down onto the plush bedding and crawling up beside her like a big jungle cat, dark-eyed and sinuous. “No more talking,” he mouthed against her neck, and she was more than happy to comply.

\-------------

The flight from Dragonstone to the heart of the North was hours long, but for Dany each minute seemed to streak past like the white, misty clouds they flew through, Jon’s body pressed tight to hers, his breath at her ear and his arms locked around her waist. Balerion hadn’t put up much fuss, though he was less familiar with Jon’s presence than either of the other dragons seemed to be.

But he had allowed her husband to climb up his leathery wing, only letting free a brief gust of hot air when he’d sniffed Jon from head to toe before allowing him to approach closer.

Now, tucked together atop her dragon’s back, Dany thought it seemed little more than a dream, to be sharing this with him. He had flown before, as well, had ridden with Naerys into battle on Silverwing’s back, but this was different, she knew.

Balerion was her chosen, her mount, and to take to the skies alone astride the dragon was a wonderous thing, even alone. But to share it with Jon was everything.

Keeping close, just behind and to their left, was Naerys and her silver beast, Missandei no doubt clinging tightly so as not to slip free. Her friend was no stranger to travelling thusly, but it was without a doubt her least favorite way. She preferred the gentle rocking of a boat, to the beat of leathery wings and the constant rush of wind, but she had demurred when Daenerys had offered that she could sail for Westeros with Ser Davos and Ghost, weeks prior.

She turned her head back, after ensuring Naerys was following and was refraining from some of the wilder, more daring antics she preferred when she rode alone, finding Jon staring ahead, grinning madly, as his eyes searched the horizon.

“The Vale,” he shouted, to be heard over the roar of the wind, and pointed out the landmarks they passed, his excitement seeming to grow, finally, as they ventured closer and closer still to the land of his birth. She hoped that his fears of the night before were unfounded, but they had planted a seed of doubt in her mind, all the same. She had not yet met Eddard Stark, nor Jon’s sisters, her own battle taking place far from where Naerys and Jon had confronted the mostly-Baratheon forces of the Stormlands that had allied with the Lannisters.

She had her own worries, and the silliest, and yet most pressing amongst them was what Jon’s family might think of her. She hoped they would like her, hoped that they might be the sort who would accept her, and Naerys as well, and not think ill of them for the manner in which the child she shared with Jon was conceived.

Dany hoped it wouldn’t matter, but her apprehension only built, as the air grew colder, and they headed further North.

\-----------

Davos was a welcome, and friendly face, waiting steadfastly for Jon and Daenerys as they made a rather subdued landing in the clearing near the gates of Winterfell Keep. Naerys was wide-eyed and full of wonder, drawing off her small glove and testing a hand against the snowy ground as she took in her surroundings.

“Papa,” she breathed excitedly. “It’s like a picture! From my books!”

It was beautiful, Dany agreed inwardly, taking in the white that covered the ground, the cold chilly air that made her breath escape in misty puffs before her face, the tinkling of icicles in the trees as the wind whistled past them, the entire area ringed in dark, foreboding forests.

Though it was afternoon, still, the sky was a steely gray, the sun hidden behind low-lying clouds. Jon sniffed at the air, looping his arm around her waist as they walked. “It’ll snow soon,” he said with assurance, holding her close against his side, sharing his warmth. “They’ll have the fires lit, at least.”

As if he could sense the nervous energy building in the pit of her stomach, he leaned in. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “They will love you.”

She knew she was being ridiculous. Marriages were arranged all the time, she was far from the first, and it was certainly not a necessity that her husband’s family take to her quickly. But she would be their Queen, and even if she did not immediately receive their kindness, she hoped, at least, that she might command their respect.

At her back, Balerion roared, and she felt her fears settle as a chorus of shouts rose from within the stone walls.

Davos chuckled as they drew close enough to greet Jon’s Hand, his eyes kind as he grasped Jon’s forearm then turned his attention to her. “Safe to say they know who’s come calling, Your Grace. Though tales of the dragons have already reached their ears. I think they’re quite curious to see what all the fuss is about.”

“Ser Davos,” Dany said with a smile, nodding a greeting at the old man with kindly eyes. “I am so very pleased to see that you’ve arrived intact.”

With a grizzled laugh, Davos leaned down, to let Naerys wrap her arms around his neck quickly. “Oh, aye, the waters were rough but they’ve not yet made a sea I can’t navigate.” Naerys returned to her mother’s side, tucking her hand inside Dany’s, and the small family fell into step as Davos led the way through the gates.

The intensity of their stares, these Northmen that lined the courtyard, was something she had not fully anticipated. They were silent, yes, no doubt fearful of the two large dragons resting just beyond the walls of their Keep, but they were not unkind. Just watchful, a bit wary, as Dany clutched more tightly to Jon’s arm.

Ahead there stood another trio, waiting to receive them, and Dany let her eyes rest on each face, in turn.

The man’s identity was clear, his face long, stern, his cold bearing one she was familiar with, though she’d never seen him in the flesh. This was Eddard Stark, Jon’s father, the Winter King. She could see echoes of Jon in the man’s face, as they drew closer, and though he remained solemn she thought she spied a flicker of warmth in the man’s gray eyes as he took them in. He cut a tall, imposing figure, in his iron and bronze crown, graying hair held back in the manner Jon now wore his, his dark, battle-scarred leathers accented by the heavy fur cloak clasped at his neck and trailing down his sides.

To his right stood a tall, slender girl, with flaming red hair and piercing blue eyes. She, too, possessed that air of aloofness that her father presented, but when her eyes met Dany’s the corners of her lips twitched, as though she fought a smile. She looked the picture of a perfect, proper lady, in her thick gray woolen gown, her fur cloak of more feminine designed perched gracefully atop her shoulders.

To his left was a girl with raven hair, stick straight and barely brushing her shoulders, so remarkably like Jon in appearance that Daenerys blinked several times. She wore no fine gown, instead dressed in leathers with a woolen cape, lined with fur, that sat askance. She bore several weapons, and had the keenest stare Dany reckoned she’d ever seen. Balerion gave another cry, in the distance, and the girl grinned, though she stifled it quickly.

There was such a stiff, cold formality to it all that Dany felt it again, that shudder that coursed through her at the prospect of this introduction.

But then, Naerys dashed forward, straight to the Winter King.

“Grandfather!” Her exclamation was punctuated by a boisterous laugh, not from the small silver Princess, but from the man into whose arms she leapt.

“There she is!” Jon’s father was transformed, nothing cold or aloof about the way he embraced Naerys tightly, a grin splitting his lips as he peered down at the girl now in his arms. “How is my little silver wolf, Eh?” Naerys giggled when her nose was tweaked, the tip already pink from the chill in the air. “Not frozen yet, I hope.”

He placed her back on her feet, and the moment her booted heels hit the ground, Naerys unleashed the torrent of things she’d clearly been holding back. “Oh, no Grandfather, it’s so lovely here! I’ve never seen snow before, did you know that? There’s so much! Does it snow all the time? How do plants grow here?”

Eddard Stark studied the girl intently, scratching at his gray-bearded chin. “Well, now, that’s an awful lot of questions, lass. I’ll see if I can answer them for you. But first,” he held a finger in the air, raising his voice, no doubt knowing he held the attention of his people as he looked about. “There are two here who have been *most* excited to meet you.” His smile remained as he gestured to Jon’s sister, Sansa, who looked friendly enough as she crouched to eye level before Daenerys’s daughter. “This is Sansa.”

Dany could only imagine the look of wonder that must have crossed Naerys’s face, for all she could see was the way the redhead’s eyes grew soft as she leaned closer to the silver-haired girl. “I’m very happy to meet you.”

“Papa!” Naerys twisted to stare up at Jon. “You said she had hair like fire, and she does!” She was off, again, her lips no doubt ready to stumble of the stream of words that came next. “Papa says you are very clever with a needle, Aunt Sansa. He says you made his cloak. Can you make me one, like that? So I can have one like Papa? I would like that so very much, and I would be so careful with it, and never ever let it drag in the mud, I promise.” She could just see the way Naerys’s hands pressed together pleadingly, and stifled a laugh as she glanced at Jon, who snorted quietly under his breath.

“My goodness, yes, of course. I have already started working on it, actually. Shall I show you, later?” The nerves that had twisted Dany’s stomach so lessened at the kindness in the other woman’s voice, and she met Daenerys’s eyes with the same warmth that she had shown the girl, nodding slightly in acknowledgment before she returned her attention to Naerys.

“Oh, yes.” It was as if the Gods had bestowed a gift upon the girl, such was the reverence in her voice. “I would like that very much.”

Then, just as quickly, her eyes shifted to Jon’s other sister, the fabled Arya, who had watched the entire exchange with a healthy dose of amusement.

“You’re Arya,” Naerys said firmly, needing no introduction either, and she shifted to stand before Jon’s younger sister with no small degree of awe. “I know all about you. Is that your sword? Papa said he gave you that sword, very long ago, and look,” she gestured at her own waist, where the thin blade Jon had requested from the Dragonstone forges was secured. “Papa said it was just like yours. But I don’t have a name for it yet, and Papa says all swords should have names, shouldn’t they?”

Arya made no effort to hide her laughter, chuckling halfway through the peppering of questions, a hand on her hip as she regarded the small girl. “Oh, aye,” she said, touching a hand to the pommel of her blade. “This is Needle. And your Papa is right, all swords should have names.” She leaned low, but her whisper was of the quite loud variety. “I shall help you name yours, in exchange for a ride on your dragon, of course. Is that a fair trade?”

Naerys began to dance on her feet, turning to Daenerys, her face lit with a brilliant smile. “Oh, Mama, may I take her? I took Grandfather, he said it was great fun! May I? Please?”

Daenerys did not know what she ought to respond. She didn’t mind in the slightest, as Naerys had become well-accustomed, by now, to carrying a passenger with her when Silverwing took to the skies, but as unfamiliar as she was with Northern customs she did not want to stray from what might be expected where propriety was concerned. She gazed at Jon, who grinned and nodded subtly. “Arya isn’t going to be worth a single shit for company until she does. No harm in getting it out of the way.”

His dark-haired sister wrinkled her face in false affront, and punched at her brother’s shoulder. “Remind me why I ought to be glad to see your terrible face again?” Jon laughed heartily when his sister reached over and hugged an arm around his neck, despite her fake outrage.

“Because I am your favorite brother, naturally.” His laughter continued as he regarded his family. “It’s a fine thing, to see you again, all of you.” His good cheer was contagious, and she found her own lips spreading in a shy smile as he gestured grandly at her. “Before you run off, sister, I should very much like to introduce you to my wife, Daenerys of House Targaryen.“ The way he spoke, his voice so full of pride, of unabashed love, made her cheeks warm, made her feel heated from within.

It was an exquisite thing, to be loved so completely, and she did not hide her own affection when their eyes met again. She managed to look away, reminding herself that she had a lifetime to lose herself in the man at her side, but only one chance for a fine first impression with his family.

She gave a careful bow, dipping her head to each in turn. “A pleasure to meet you all, truly.” She held her breath as they all directed their stares to her, and she tried not to squirm under their scrutiny.

For several moments, there was naught but silence, but then Eddard sighed and reached forward to take her hands in his. “For so very many years, Daenerys, I wondered what had so captured Jon so, about this girl who had stolen his heart in Lys, and never let it go. Now, though,” he smiled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners, “Now I understand well enough. How fortunate that fate has seen fit to bring you together again, I think. We are most happy to have you here.” He checked his eyes down to Naerys, who stood clutching Arya’s hand as though their palms had been fused together. “And the little Princess as well. Oh, we are best pleased, indeed.”

She could see emotion building in the man’s eyes, and perhaps Arya did as well, because suddenly she chimed in, winking at Naerys before she addressed her father. “If we’re done being sentimental, I think I have a dragon to ride, Father, by your leave?”

With a good-natured frown, he growled out his answer, the King’s eyes dancing even as he tried to sound stern. “Oh, aye, be off with you both then, but you’d best take care, Arya. And you,” he said, dropping to a knee to study Naerys, who was beside herself with excitement. “You’ll be taking Grandfather up later, yes?”

“Oh, I swear, Grandfather,” Naerys answered earnestly, giving the man another quick hug, the true affection between the two a not unwelcome sight to Dany’s eyes. The girl seemed to have that effect on people, she thought proudly, watching as Jon’s sister took Naerys’s hand in hers, her head bowed low as the two chattered and made their way back out of the Keep.

Davos ducked his head to whisper to Missandei, who stood at his side, then turned to Jon and Daenerys. “We’d best go keep and eye on that pair,” the older man said with a chuckle, and they were off, trailing after the smaller forms of Naerys and Arya as they left through the front gates. Ghost trotted off behind them, and Dany felt the small fissure of worry that had opened in her chest bind closed. Of all there, save for herself and Jon, and no doubt the massive dragons outside the gates, she knew Ghost would let no harm come to her daughter.

“Now then,” Jon’s father said, his eyes warm as he stared at his son, first, then Daenerys. “Let’s get you both settled in, shall we?”

\------------

Daenerys wasn’t certain exactly what she’d expected Winterfell to be like.

It was cold, yes, and the walls of this ancient Keep were far older than those of Dragonstone, something daunting about treading these chilled halls.

But the people were not so; Jon’s father was most gracious, taking the pair on a tour of the grounds that Jon knew all to well, his sister, quite the proper Lady, pointing out various points of interest as they walked along, a deep well of kindness in them both. They spoke more to Daenerys than to Jon, who seemed content to keep Dany’s arm tucked in the crook of his arm, his gloved hand laying atop hers, his eyes never straying from her as they journeyed around the grounds.

“What is it?” Her whisper only deepened his fond smile, and he dipped his head towards hers as they made their way to the Great Hall.

His breath was hot on the shell of her ear, so at odds with the icy air that it made her shiver. “It’s just,” he replied quietly, then stopped, and she found his eyes growing glassy. “Seeing you here. It’s more than I ever dreamed I would have.”

She stopped, then, turning to face him fully, in that moment completely uncaring for anything but him, for the look in his eyes, that precious face that had, for so long, lived only in her own heartbroken dreams.

“I find I must remind myself, every day, that this is real,” she whispered, then leaned up, sealing her lips against his, barely mindful enough of their company that she managed to just tease the seam of his lips with her tongue before she pulled away, their breath steaming the air between their mouths as she returned his longing stare with one of her own.

“I want to be alone with you,” he rasped out meaningfully, then winced as his sister called out to them to hurry along.

She didn’t miss the knowing, tiny smile on his father’s face, even as the Stark pair politely pretended their had not witnessed the tender embrace.

“Now,” Sansa trilled, “Let us show you to your rooms.”

Jon spared her one more heated look before tucking her hand back at his elbow, clearing his throat and straightening, every inch the stoic Northman once more.

But from the corner of his mouth, came one last remark, one that made her thighs grow damp with want beneath her many layers.

“Finally,” he muttered, and she couldn’t help but agree.

\-----------

The moment the found themselves alone, their belongings brought to their chambers, Jon’s father and sister bidding them farewell so that they might ‘refresh themselves after their journey’, Jon’s mouth was on hers.

She could do little more but arch and moan as he nipped at her bottom lip first, then the upper, suckling each into his mouth in turn as his hands moved in a well-practiced flurry over her clothing. She shrugged out of her heavy coat, mere feet from their door, her hands seeking the cool strands of his hair as she plunged her fingers into his curls, holding him close as she attempted to devour his mouth as thoroughly as possible.

His clever tongue teased against hers, then he withdrew, growing frustrated with the laces of her undercoat as he panted against her lips. “Too many bloody clothes,” he grunted, frowning mightily. “Mayhap I have been in the South too long, because I swear to the Gods, Daenerys, you ought never wear so many layers again.”

She smirked at him, brows raising as she took advantage of his distance to see to her own laces, drawing the garment over her head, and began to work on the laces of her trousers as she toed her way out of her boots, a nod towards him motioning he ought to do the same. “Shall I merely prance around naked then, Your Grace? Freeze my arse off so that you might not be troubled by all these trappings?”

He threw her a wicked grin, shucking off his gambeson, his cloak now in a haphazard heap on the floor, and worked his thumb through his own trouser lacings. “In a perfect world, aye, of course. But we must settle for this one, so I must accept that you must, indeed, clothe yourself. Though I must admit,” he said playfully, sitting at the edge of the bed and ridding himself of his boots, “It does pain me so.”

Dany scoffed lightly, now clad only in her thin tunic, nipples already straining and hard, no doubt visible through the sheer material that barely brushed the tops of her thighs. She clucked her tongue, coming to stand between his legs, as he stripped his own tunic off, now bare except for his accursed trousers. “You poor thing,” she cooed, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Perhaps we ought to remedy that situation?” She pressed her chest to his, glorying in the way the material chafed against her sensitive flesh, in the growl that rumbled his chest and he grabbed tight to her hips, pulling her up to straddle his lap, before his hands grappled for the hem of the fabric that shielded her from his eyes.

They both sighed as he pulled the tunic over her head, his eyes dark and hungry as he drank in the sight of her. She wondered, wistfully, whether they would ever tire of this, if the simple act of stripping each other bare would ever become commonplace. Because now, as he gazed at her, licking his lips and letting his warm palms cup the curves of her hips, it was as though he had never gazed upon her before, a sort of wonder in his stormy gaze that had enchanted her from the start.

Suddenly, the world was spinning, as he twisted them so that she laid, limps spread, open to his starving gaze as he stood above her, shoving his trousers roughly down his legs.

“How many times have you imagined this, Jon?” She arched her back lazily, reveling in the heat that coursed through her, eyes lingering on the thick, stiff length of his cock as it bobbed against his abdomen. She rolled her eyes back up to his, letting her hands trail up along her sides, cupping her own breasts and pulling lightly at the hard peaks of her nipples as his face shifted into a look that was near-feral. “Hmmm? Having me, here, in this Keep? In your bed? At your mercy?”

His chest was heaving, his breath coming in ragged pants, and she moaned aloud as he fisted a hand around his cock, stroking himself once, then twice, as he let his eyes blaze a trail down her body.

“Too many times to count,” he ground out, releasing himself to crawl up the length of her form, until their mouths were even, and then he struck. He plundered her mouth, kissing her with a passion that left her dripping for him, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, groaning and stroking her tongue along his as she rutted her slick folds against his hardness desperately, craving him with a fierceness that still managed to catch her off guard, at times.

No one had ever loved her as he did, and none ever would, that much she knew.

She grabbed for his shoulders, letting her nails prick the skin, until he raised his head and she managed to take several loud, gasping breaths. “Then have me, Jon. Like you imagined.”

He needed no further prompting, her King, though she whimpered when his body was no longer resting atop hers, the loss of his cock thrusting against her a distressing one, until, blissfully, his mouth was at her chest, taking mercy on her as she writhed beneath him, suckling roughly at first one rosy nipple then the other.

If he had been tentative, before, when these acts were so new to them both, he was sure, now, a confidence that ran bone-deep clear in every touch of his hand on her body, every flick of his tongue, every mouthful of flesh he took as he claimed her.

He had learned, well, how best to touch her, and he used that store of knowledge, now, teeth grazing against each sensitive peak as he slipped a hand between her thighs, a knowing chuckle issuing forth as he let the pads of his fingers graze her wet cunt, lightly, torturously.

“I certainly thought about this,” he said teasingly, and let his index finger circle the swollen bud above her core, making her hips roll and buck as she tried to seek more pressure, more of that teasing touch. His hand left her, and she uttered a soft please, shifting willingly when he moved her atop the bed, so that her head rested on soft, downy pillows.

She raised her head for a kiss, but he denied her, his hot mouth working a wet trail down her body yet again, his tongue snaking out and laving a slick line up the column of her throat before he bit gently at her earlobe. “I will show you what else I thought about, my Queen.”

Words escaped her; She had become a wanton creature, beneath his hands, grasping for whatever part of him was within reach as she gave herself over to the sensations he stirred in her. Desire was a snarling, greedy beast that rose up inside her, and she savored the heady pleasure of his mouth at her breasts once more, her eyes falling shut as he worked her over until her skin was slick with his saliva, his thumb and forefinger pinching just hard enough to make her writhe all the harder against the furs at her back.

“Enough of your teasing, you wicked man,” she urged, trying once more to trap him between her legs, only for him to slip free and kneel between her spread thighs. She rolled her hips up, in invitation, knowing full well what he intended as he crouched and hooked her thighs atop his shoulders.

She felt him blow a puff of hot air against her damp center, biting at her lip as she prized her eyes open, with effort, and looked down her body, to find him staring up at her with blatant want and a sweet, soft adoration.

“All those years,” he said, each word tickling against her tender flesh, “and I never forgot how you tasted, sweet Dany.”

Her loud cry seemed to echo off the stone walls as, with no further preamble, he buried his face in her folds, his tongue licking small, tight circles around that swollen bud that begged for his knowing caress, and she let out a wail as he began to pleasure her in earnest, alternating flicks of his tongue with the suckling press of his mouth, sending her careening over the edge in with his name on her tongue, a rough chant that seemed to drive him onward.

No man had ever touched her in this way, brought her such pleasure with merely his mouth, but Jon had become a master of the art, seeming to relish each cry he wrung from her as though it fed his own hunger.

He chased her desire further still, sliding first one long finger, then another, into her cunt, his palm curling up to press against her clit as he caught his breath, his fingers plunging into her as he ground the heel of his hand just above her core, his face damp with her arousal and his cheeks flushed, eyes hooded as he watched her face contort in agonized want.

“Again, Dany,” came that gruff, sure voice, and his eyes were near black with lust as he watched her be flung over the precipice again, groaned as she cried his name as she came, his free hand coming up to wrap around his cock once more, slowly stroking as he watched her pant and moan, felt her walls clench tight around his intruding fingers.

Finally, satisfied that she had recovered herself, he slid his fingers free of her, licking the residue of her wetness from his fingers unselfconsciously as he studied her spread before him, gasping atop the coverlets.

“No sweeter sound in the world, Dany.” He ducked his head again, pressing firm kisses to each of her hip bones, then the hollow of her navel, making her giggle when he dipped his tongue into the recess quickly, then to the valley between her breasts, until he was hovering above her again, worship in his eyes. “I never forgot the way you sound, the way you feel. And in here,” he murmured, casting his eyes about quickly, before returning them to hers, “In here, in the night, sometimes it was like you were still here.”

Her throat constricted at the longing she heard still, the ghost of the grief that had plagued them both, for so very long, that had pierced both their hearts in equal measure. She knew well where his mind dwelt; It had only been the memories of him that had sustained her, when the nights were the darkest, when her suffering was the greatest.

Only the wisps of remembrance, of how he had held her, how he had looked on her as though he would never love any but her; These had been her comfort, when there had been little else.

Until Naerys had come, and the gift he had given her had left her with a reason to live on.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, a move nearly like habit to her now, and closed the distance between their faces, needing to kiss him, needing the feel of his body pressed fully to hers to chase those old hurts away, to reassure her that this, now, this was what mattered.

“I want you, Jon,” she whispered against his mouth, kissing him soundly, teasing his tongue with hers even as she captured him about the hips with her legs, locking her ankles together at the small of his back so that he could not slip away, this time. A roll of her hips had his cock sliding slick against her cunt, the want to have him inside her, filling her, spilling his hot seed into her depths now beyond her ability to control.

He had mercy on them both, and she gave him a slow, wicked smile as he reached between their bodies to align himself with her, the head of his cock bumping against her entrance.

With a smooth, quick thrust, he was buried in her, to the hilt, and she was helpless to stop the wail of his name, crying out at the way he seemed to complete her, when he filled her so sweetly.

This was what home was, she thought, holding tight to him, pulse pounding in her ears as he took hold of her thighs where they encircled his hips. He set up a swift, demanding rhythm, no doubt having pushed himself a bit too far in aiming to please her so well, his eyes wild and frantic as he stared down at her before burying his face at her neck and raking his teeth across her slender collar bone.

Gods, she would never get her fill of him, of the delicious agony of his thick flesh feeling as though she would be split in two, of the way he seemed to know just the angle she wanted, adjusting to drive her to the point of madness as her hips rose and fell to meet and match the cadence of his.

She had never forgotten this, how it felt to be taken by him, to belong to him, to hold him inside her and revel in the solid feel of him under her hands. She moaned his name, over and over, feeling her spine bow up from the bedding, the slap of his skin against hers a counterpoint to the way they keened and called out to each other.

She was tightening around him, against, each slide of his cock against her inner walls hitting a spot he knew to strike, hands cupping her arse now to hold her just so, his face contorting as she began to spasm anew around him, a blissful release that had stars flaring to life behind her eyes.

He followed soon after, with a loud roar of satisfaction, rocking into her still as he spilled into her, as she milked every drop she could from him.

Neither ever seemed to mind the way their flesh clung, in the aftermath, their skin dewed with their exertions, the cool air chilling them, only making the blanket of heat that was his body on hers even sweeter.

Jon pressed light kisses to her closed lids, then the tip of her nose, then the apples of her cheeks, before dropping a sweet, lingering kiss to her lips.

He laughed, quietly, the sound muffled as he kissed her through it.

“What’s amused you so?” Her breathing was still labored, and her limbs were languorous and weighty as she seemed float on a lingering cloud. She couldn’t help but smile when he gave her a slightly chagrined look, bracing himself on his forearms along either side of her head.

“Well,” he drawled, sheepishly, “Reckon the whole of the Keep will sort out what we were up to.”

Dany grinned and pecked at his lips, clenching around him where he remained inside her, her smile growing when he hissed and withdrew, cock softening and leaving a slick trail of seed along her thigh as he rolled to his side and tucked her against him. “Let them,” she hissed, laying her head upon his chest, listening to his heart as it slowed to a regular rhythm. “They shall simply know how well my King pleases his Queen.”

He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, holding her close, his nose pressed against her hair. “Let’s just stay in here forever, eh?” When she rolled her eyes at him and pursed her lips he groaned, and dropped a kiss to her head. “At least for a little while longer, then.”

She nodded in silent agreement, closing her eyes, perfectly willing to savor him, like this, for as long as she could.

\------------

It was not long after, as they roused themselves, Jon trying his level best to repair her crown of braids to something resembling their former style, that a knock sounded at the door, and he squeezed her shoulder warmly before crossing the room to answer it. Dany busied herself with searching for her crown, not remembering immediately where she’d left it, grimacing to herself when she saw it on it’s side under a nearby table. What would Rhaegar say, to see the Crown of Dragonstone discarded in such haphazardly fashion, rubies glinting in the daylight that still shone through the room’s windows.

She had just placed it on her head when Jon ushered his father into the room, and she cleared her throat quickly, smoothing her hands down her clothing, hoping it hadn’t rumpled to terribly in the earlier, frenzied removal of it.

“Your Grace,” the Winter King intoned, a small smile playing about his lips. “I’ve asked my son to speak with his sister, to finalize preparations for our feast this night, in your honor.” Jon gave her a quick, put-upon pout, his face straightening when his father looked his way. “I wonder, in the meantime, if you might accompany me to the Godswood?” His eyes were on Jon again, quickly. “If that suits you, my son.”

Jon’s eyes were on Dany, questioning whether she wished to do this or not, and she gave a smooth nod, giving King Eddard a beaming smile. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

The King rocked back on his heels, gloved hands clasped together, clearly pleased. “Right then,” he said smartly, extending an arm in her direction as Jon blew out a beleaguered breath. “Son, go find your sister and lend your advice, before she works herself into a proper tizzy, won’t you?”

“Aye, Father,” Jon said, and then he was at her side, in an instant, a quick kissed pressed to her temple, his hand grasping her forearm in farewell. “I shall see you later, sweet Dany,” he whispered, and left, leaving Daenerys alone for the first time with his father.

She offered the King a shy smile, and took his arm, noting, as he led her from the room, how much he favored her husband, in profile.

The pair remained quiet as they left the main halls of the Keep, Daenerys shivering a bit as a blast of cold air greeted her once they made their way to the courtyard, then through the back gates of the Keep, to the grounds beyond.

A copse of trees, large and towering, greeted her, the leaves long since departed, bare branches covered in a thick layer of ice and snow. Jon’s father opened the iron gates that guarded what she knew, from the tales Jon had told her, to be sacred ground.

The Godswood was where one might pray to the Old Gods, a holy place for those who followed such faith, and she held her breath as she walked in tandem with the older man, who spared her several glances as they progressed towards the center of the wood.

“How is Naerys faring, Your Grace?” At the mention of her daughter’s name, Eddard Stark grinned, his attention finally focused directly on Daenerys as they continued onward.

“Oh, quite well. I suspect my daughters are quite taken with her. A delightful child, Daenerys. You should be quite proud. I cannot imagine it was easy, so long on your own, so far from home, with a child to raise.” He patted her hand as they walked, the one tucked along his arm, and she wondered how much Jon had explained to his father, of what had befallen his daughter and his bride before they had returned to Westerosi shores.

She frowned slightly, training her eyes ahead, though she felt the King’s gaze heavy on her. “No, it was not, Your Grace. But it does no good to dwell upon the past. We must, all of us, look ahead now, to the future.” She let out a measured breath, then asked what pressed the deepest upon her heart. “Is she safe here? In the North?”

Eddard looked at her, aghast, his face paling slightly as he took in her question. “You jest, Daenerys.” When her brow knit, slightly confused, he let out a breathless chuff of laughter. “All those lords gathered to greet you, they were all there that day, leading their soldiers as we faced the Baratheon forces.” He shook his head, a look of wonder appearing there, the years seeming to slip away as his features softened. “I’ve never seen a finer sight than that silver dragon streaking across the sky. And that it was my son, astride it, my granddaughter as well.” He clucked his tongue, as though he were offended that she might possibly fear for her daughter’s welfare here in the North. “There’s not a man here who would dare raise a finger to hurt that wee lass, that much I can promise. We saw her field of fire, sure enough, heard the screams of Robert’s men as she reduced them to ash, right before our eyes.” He fell silent, considering, continuing to lead her deeper into the wood.

She heard his weighty sigh, peeked askance to find that Jon’s father was also staring ahead, to the clearing they were approaching. “Do you know, Daenerys, I think it can be naught but fate that has led you and Jon together.” He stopped, suddenly, and she did as well, curious, her eyes catching and holding a set of pale gray. “When you were just a babe,” he whispered solemnly, “Your father, Aerys, sent me a raven. Rhaegar had not yet wed my sister, you see, and he wished to know whether I might wed my son Jon to his newborn daughter, whether we might, at last, join our houses together by vow, by blood.”

He waited, and she supposed he expected her surprised face, the way her lips parted slightly. This was something she had never known, that at one time her father had wished for her to wed Jon Stark. “What did you say?”

The old King sighed, a cloud of mist forming on his exhalation. “I fear I was too lost in my own sorrow, in those days. I believe I told him I would think on it.” He shook his head sadly, his lined face creasing further. “And then many things happened, Daenerys, many terrible things. And yet, still, you found each other, you and Jon, as though destiny had already decreed this union.”

His words hung in the air, as Dany pondered them, wondering what might have befallen her if such promise had been made, so early in her life. Perhaps it would have changed nothing, or everything. But she was convinced, as she had been since the day Jon had come back to her, there in the throne room of Dragonstone, that it mattered very little.

“There is no other for me,” she said, her voice ringing in the still, chilled air, “but him. That much I know.” She was as sure of that fact as she was of anything, that Jon Snow had been fashioned for her, made for her heart, her body, her soul. No other could fit against her as he did, could have captured her so completely.

King Eddard chuckled at her side, sounding so much like his son that she had to glance at him again, to confirm it was the father and not the son. “And we are all the better for it, I think.”

They entered the clearing at last, and Dany felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of the great, white-barked tree at the heart of this wood. It was terrifying in its beauty, a think that provoked both revulsion and awe. There was a face, seemingly carved into the side, oozing a red sap that resembled blood, enough to make her shudder as the King led her close enough to make out the fine detail of the eyes, the mouth, frozen open in a scream, she imagined.

“I used to find my son here, you know. More often than I cared to, after he returned from Essos. For so long, I did not know what he prayed for, only that he lingered so long I feared the tears on his cheeks might freeze, that I would find him frozen where he stood, beseeching the Gods forever.” He turned to face her, taking her hands in his. “Now that you are here, I think I understand what brought him here so often.”

He led her to a large, flat boulder, set into the ground, beside which lay a still, clear pool, indicating that she seat herself upon it. She did, settling the folds of her thick white overcoat around her legs for warmth, her eyes on the Winter King as he stepped away. Jon’s father approached that horrible face, and lifted a hand, placing his palm on the bark. His eyes seemed to close in something approaching reverence. “I serve the Old Gods, always. I serve my blood. My House. My Kingdom. And now, very soon, that Kingdom shall be yours. Yours and Jon’s.”

One step back, then another, and he was examining his glove as he returned to where she sat, the leather now marred by drops of red sap. He claimed a stretch of the rock’s surface beside her, looking out into the white wood that surrounded them, light flakes of snow falling all around. “I prayed in these woods for many things. And, no doubt, many of those prayers went unanswered.” She could see the man’s eyes grow a bit watery, and she thought that this must be Jon’s father as he had been. Somber, brooding, a man whose life had been filled with little joy. He sniffed, then, and gave her a small, wistful smile. “But the Gods have answered Jon’s prayers, and mine as well. For in the years after he returned, I would come here, long after the Keep had gone dark, and pray that there would be an end to his misery, his suffering.”

Another heavy sigh, and he was pressing his hands together, leather against leather, creaking slightly at the pressure as he frowned down at the snowy ground below his feet.

“I only wish we had found each other sooner. But perhaps we did so precisely when we ought to have,” Dany said, haltingly, her voice thick with emotion, her mind filled with the image of Jon as he had been, on his knees before this tree, begging his Gods for just one thing. Her. It was all too easy to imagine, all too similar to her many entreaties, to any Gods that might listen, across the Narrow Sea. She believed in none of them, but still she had prayed, at every altar that stood along her way.

Eddard considered her words thoughtfully, then nodded, eyes narrowed slightly. “Perhaps so,” he agreed. “I know it pains him, how much you suffered before your paths were joined again. How much his little lass did. He wants so badly to protect you both, you see. ‘Course,” he continued, another rare smile spreading his lips thin, “I reckon that would be a sight easier with dragons.”

Daenerys laughed, her head bobbing in a nod of agreement, breath huffing out in a white, steamy cloud. “I should certainly hope so,” she said dryly. “If they cannot protect us all, I do not know what can.”

That earned a snort from the man. “Oh,” he answered knowingly, “I suspect Ghost shall try his level best. He is quite taken with the girl. Though I daresay we all are.” He scrubbed his gloves hands against his lap, quickly, and drew in a breath, then stood.

“I wonder if I might ask a boon of you. It might be too much, I know this. It should be enough that you have done the impossible, many times over. You have, alone, hatched dragons from stone. You have saved my son from a life of misery. Given him a child. Delivered us all from the Lannister threat once and for all.” He seemed so nervous that Daenerys felt her curiosity truly piqued, wondering what it was he could possibly ask that would cause such tension in the way he paced, such worry in his pale gray eyes as they flitted to hers.

“Of course, please,” Dany answered, hands spread encouragingly, wondering what he might possibly wish.

“Naerys,” he said in a rush. “Would you let her come, let her foster here? For a season?” He raised his hands as she made to answer, plunging ahead as though he feared she would decline. “She is young yet, I know, and now is not the right time. But when she is older, ‘twould be a blessing, I think.” His eyes plead with her, and she felt her fondness for him grow, the way he seemed to beg her with naught but his eyes reminding her yet again of his son.

“I think she would like that just fine, Your Grace. She seems quite taken with the North. And if she is to rule, one day, after Jon and I are gone, it would be wise for the people to grow to know her as well.”

He rushed to her, grasped her hands in his once more, the smile on his face seeming almost unnatural, as though he was not used to such. It seemed genuine, though, and she gave him a brilliant smile in return. “You will be a fine Queen, Daenerys. I know that is true. The Gods have blessed us, have blessed my son with your return, with his little lass as well.” He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing above the furs of his cloak. “His mother would be proud, you know, that he has taken a wife such as you. And do you know,” he continued quietly, kneeling beside the stone she sat upon, “So would your mother, and your father besides.” He crowed out a bright laugh that seemed to multiply there amongst the bare, snow-laden trees. “Oh, if Aerys could see his only daughter, with dragons no less.”

It had not occurred to her that he might be so very familiar with her parents. She found herself suddenly burdened with questions, and before she could halt the words, they spilled from her lips. “Would you tell me what you remember of them, Your Grace? I was just a girl when I lost them, and I would hear of them from one who knew them will, if you wouldn’t mind?”

With a hearty nod he extended his hand to help her rise. “It would be an honor. Let us return to the Keep, though, before my son sends out his wolf to seek us out. We have been gone longer than I intended, I think.”

Indeed, she saw the sun beginning to dip down below the horizon, and took the man’s arm again with a grin. “No doubt,” she said with an amused quirk of her lips.

He began to speak as they took the path towards the iron gate, and it seemed to Daenerys that, despite the chill of this place, despite the rather hostile, foreign clime and the hard, weathered people, that it had a warmth of it’s own, a charm that she could appreciate.

And so long as she had Jon, and Naerys, she could make any place into that thing she had longed for so desperately, for so long: a home.

\------------

The feast was a splendid affair, the Great Hall of Winterfell filled to the brim with the bannermen and ladies of the North, as well as a great many smallfolk from the neighboring village. It was a boisterous event, ale flowing and plates endlessly filled with roasted boar covered in a rich, dark gravy, roasted root vegetables, and loaf after loaf of thick, crusty bread. The smell alone had made Dany’s mouth water, and she indulged a bit more than she might normally have, chasing each warm mouthful with a sip of water from the gilded cups that lined the head table.

Jon was in his element, she saw, Naerys perched on his lap for half the meal as she described, with great enthusiasm, all the things she had seen when she had Arya had set out on Silverwing’s back earlier in the day.

Jon’s dark-haired sister seemed just as excited as the smaller girl was, piping up with vivid descriptions of frozen waterfalls and lakes, of the hunting grounds the Winter King favored, how they had scared herds of elk and deer from the tree lines when Silverwing had let out a mighty, piercing scream.

“It was just marvelous,” Arya sighed wistfully, collapsing back against her seat and shoving a forkful of food into her mouth. She swallowed, her eyes steady on Naerys. “We ought to fly again on the morrow, Naerys, and I will show you other, very wonderful things.”

Sansa, who had been seated to Dany’s right, let out a light huff, looking quite cross as she leaned over to glare at her sister. “You’re trying to keep her all to yourself, sister.” Her gaze softened as she looked at the little trio between her father and herself, and Arya craned her neck around Eddard to scowl back at her sister and stick out her tongue, a move which sent Naerys into a fit of giggles. “I have a surprise for you as well, Princess. I shall show you at first light tomorrow.” She seemed to remember herself, and gave Jon and Dany a sheepish smile. “With your permission, of course.”

Jon screwed up his face as if he were inclined to say no, laughing when Sansa looked absolutely desolate. “Of course,” he said playfully. “Though we must take care that she not become spoiled, I think.”

Naerys looked offended, staring up at Jon with wide eyes. “Papa, I have said my ‘thank yous’ many, many times today. And I only had one lemon cake, even though Aunt Sansa said I may have as many as I wish.”

Jon considered that, making a show of it, scratching a hand along his jaw as he looked down at his daughter. “Well, then I suppose you have been on your best behavior then. But you still must finish your food, lass.” He gestured to Naerys plate, where her vegetables still remained, and everyone chuckled at the distaste that flashed across the girl’s face, at her forlorn expression as she climbed down from Jon’s lap and took her seat, spearing a chunk of parsnip with her fork.

“Yes, Papa,” she said obligingly, but Dany saw immediately the way the girl’s indigo eyes began to travel for a familiar white form.

“Naerys,” she said with light warning, “Those are for you, not for Ghost.”

Jon smothered a laugh as Naerys sighed. “Yes, Mama.”

Dinner seemed to pass in a blur of activity, then, so many faces passing by and offering greetings and thanks that she knew it would be a mighty task to remember them. Jon proved endlessly helpful, though the sinful burr of his whisper as he told her the name of each Lord or Lady also served to stir a quite different sort of hunger.

She sipped frequently at her water, wondering, with a furious flurry of nerves, when Jon would notice she had eschewed both wine and ale.

The Maester had confirmed her suspicions, just before they’d departed Dragonstone, but she had not quite found the right time to tell him. Watching him with Naerys, their little whispered conversations in-between the interruption of yet another well-wishing Northman brought her such peace that she had to imagine their joy could only double, when she told him that his seed had taken root in her again, and in six moons she would bear his second child.

She smiled to herself, a small, private thing, then busied herself with praising Jon’s eldest sister on the finery of the feast, the hall itself bedecked in a charming mix of her colors and her husband’s, quite complementary to her admittedly biased eye.

Dany had found herself growing fond of both girls, for different reasons. They were as alike, perhaps, as night and day could claim, but they were each, in their own measure, precisely what she had expected. Belatedly, as she watched Jon’s father rise and call for the attention of his people with a loud clang of his fork against his tankard, she thought her prior concerns had proven rather silly.

And then, as his people paid a rapt, reverent attention, the Winter King stood, and with the least amount of pomp or formality she’d witnessed in this quest for every crown of Westeros, simply laid it atop his son’s head, turning back to his people and giving a roaring shout of “Long live the King!”

The North echoed such cry, and then he stepped to Daenerys, raising her hand from the table, and urged the same from his people, the cries of “Long live the Dragon Queen!” echoing through her ears long after the meal had concluded.

The new Warden of the North then begged her to share the tale of her own conquest, of the battle these Northerners had not witnessed, when she had retaken the Reach atop Balerion, an army of Dothraki thundering below as she had lain fiery waste to her enemies from the skies above. It was a rousing tale, to be sure, and Jon let Naerys curl against his chest once more as father and daughter listened as well, though they had heard it so often that surely she thought they must be tired of it.

Jon listened with a proud smile, along with his people, as though it were the first time, hand pounding the table as the people cheered when she recounted how the Lannisters had thought to use mounted ballistae against her, how she had Balerion had dodged each projectile only to wheel around and reduce each and every one to ash, before doing the same to the armies the Lions had raised against them.

Naerys, however, clearly exhausted from her own day of excited discovery, eventually nodded off against her father’s chest, and with an indulgent smile Jon excused both himself and Dany, the pair quietly weaving their way through the halls to the chambers just beside their own.

Ghost took up position by the feather bed, as they made quick work of changing the groggy girl into a sleeping shift. She seemed to settle back into sleep as soon as her silver head hit the pillow, her lips curved up in a smile, and for a moment Dany was content to sit by Jon’s side, perched on the bed, and look down in wonder at the girl they’d made together.

But then Jon rubbed his hands up and down her arms, and leaned in close, lips brushing her earlobe. “I have a surprise for you, love.” With a cheeky smile, he pulled her up, and they blew out the candles scattered around the room and departed, leaving the direwolf to watch over their daughter as she slept.

Jon stopped them both by the door to their own chambers, holding up a finger, signaling she ought to wait as he slipped inside. When he emerged, nearly vibrating with glee, his eyes dancing, he kept a hand behind his back, unwilling give her a peek. Instead, he waggled his brows at her hand took her hand, leading her up several narrow flights of stone stairs until they found themselves bathed in moonlight on the battlements above.

He seemed to be searching for a certain spot, along a stretch of rooftop, but finally he discovered it and, with a sigh, sat. He stretched his legs out before him, then quickly removed his fur cloak, far more used to the cold air than Dany was, spreading it beside him for her to sit upon and join him.

She did, smiling against his neck as she tucked her head against him, his arm rising to rest across her shoulders. Though she had enjoyed the time spent with his family, there was still a small, selfish part at the heart of her that was greedy for ever second they found to be alone together. She sat up, gazing up at the face she loved most, the one she always had, and gave him a shy smile as she raised a brow.

“Are you ready for your surprise?” He seemed almost more eager than she, and when she grinned and nodded he presented the object in his hidden hand with a flourish, a bottle she recognized immediately, instantly aware of who must have procured this.

“Remember?” He uncorked the bottle, and the heady smell of rum stung her nostrils, causing her stomach to pitch a bit. “Ahhh,” he sighed out, and took a healthy swig. He smacked his lips and handed her the drink. “Just like old times, Dany.”

She let out a nervous huff, taking the bottle carefully, memories flooding her of days spent on sunny shores, the sound of the surf merging with the low timbre of his voice, falling in love with him ever more deeply with each shy, sweet look they shared, each brush of their hands as they traded the bottle back at forth, drunk on rum and each other.

“How did you sweet talk this out of Davos, I wonder?” He laughed at the question, the arm around her tugging her closer, tipping his cheek to rest against her head as they stared up into the night sky.

“No need,” he murmured. “He’s somehow convinced Missandei that he ought to learn Valyrian, and when I last checked, she was trying her level best to teach him all the swear words she knew.” Dany burst into laughter, and she felt Jon shrug at her side, his own low laugh rumbling from his chest. “Those were the ones he wanted to learn first, I imagine.”

She clasped the bottle between her palms, but still she did not drink, knowing if there were ever to be a perfect time to tell him, it was now. She just wasn’t sure how. Should she just blurt it out? Perhaps she ought to wait, let him discover it on his own, when the proof was undeniable. It would not be long, now, anyway. With Naerys, she had found that small, gentle swell of her abdomen just before her fourth moon of carrying the babe, and she suspected this one would be much the same.

“Dany?” The questioning lilt of his voice brought her back from her wonderings, something worried in the depths of his eyes as he swept them over her upturned face. “Have you lost your taste for it?”

She closed her eyes, lips pressed together tight, and willed herself to stop being so silly. Surely he would be happy, though the timing might not be what she would have chosen. Why, their reign over all of Westeros had barely just begun, and another child would scarce make such things easier. But she was happy, all the same, longing for what it would be like to bear this child in the safety of Dragonstone, with Jon near, and perhaps Naerys as well.

“I like rum just fine, my sweet.” Placing the bottle down against the wall, she turned in his arms, let her gloved fingers trail along his cheek. “But I fear I cannot share it with you tonight.”

His brow furrowed, concern creasing his features. “Are you ill? I should have warned you about the food, bloody hells.” He sighed and leaned his head against the wall, his eyes still holding hers. “It’s heavy if you aren’t used to it.”

She shook her head slightly, adoration blooming in her chest at his concern for her, how the love he had carried for her seemed to spill over into every interaction. She cupped his jaw and leaned up, just brushing her lips to his. “It’s not that, my love.”

“Then what is it?” He tensed, his breath caught in his chest, as though he feared the worst.

She felt her eyes grow hot as she let the truth spill from her lips. “The Maester said I oughtn’t drink, Jon. Her lips twisted in watery smile as she watched the confusion that flitted across his face. “Not ‘til the babe is born.”

It hit him like a hammer blow, and she beamed at him as his eyes rounded like saucers, jolting back in surprise, breath leaving him at once, as though he’d been struck. “A babe?” His shocked whisper seemed thunderously loud, and she gave into a fit of laughter as he gazed everyone at once, dumbstruck. “You’re having a babe?”

“Yes.” He captured her in his arms, then, wrapping his arms around her so tight she worried she might not be able to breathe, releasing her only to pepper her face with frantic kisses. “A babe,” he murmured between each one, “Truly?”

With a snicker, she allowed him to pull her fully atop him, now gazing down at him as he looked up at her, amazed. “Yes, Jon,” she said drolly, letting her fingers trace along the curled hair at the nap of his neck. “How can you be so surprised?” She raised her brows at him meaningfully. “It’s certainly not for lack of trying.”

He laughed, a joyful sound that caressed her ears, that wrapped itself around her as surely as his strong arms were. “Now that’s the Gods honest truth, to be sure. Oh, Dany,” he sighed, lips seeking hers urgently, kissing her soundly before releasing her. “I do love you so.”

She dipped her head, kissing him softly, smiling against his lips. “Especially making babes with me, I think.”

He chuckled against her mouth, breath hot as it fanned out into the sliver of air between them. “Yes, especially that bit. But all the other bits, as well.” He stiffened, suddenly, taking her by the shoulders and pushing her back enough that she could see his terrified face. “Gods be good, was I too rough earlier? We must take care.” He groaned, and she clucked her tongue at him in response, playfully scolding.

“Of course not.” She let her fingers trail down his neck, to rest her covered hand over his heart, captivated at the way it pounded under her touch. “I’m not spun-glass all of a sudden, you silly man. Now,” she whispered wickedly, bringing their faces close again, brushing her nose against his teasingly, “Let us go back to our chambers, and I shall prove it.”

With a grunt of effort, Jon stood, carrying her in his arms, and began striding quickly for the door that would lead them to the stairs, into the Keep and closer to the chambers that beckoned them both. “No need to ask twice, my Queen.”

\------------

It was precisely six moons later, the agony of birthing her babe made bearable by the solid strength of Jon positioned behind her on the bed, his hands clasped so tightly in hers that she thought she might cause him serious harm, that her second babe was borne.

Naerys had been summoned when the time had drawn close, and so she was there, her mouth falling open in wonder, when her Dothraki midwife held the babe aloft, cutting the cord and scrubbing at the tiny thing roughly until that first, squalling cry was heard.

Dany sobbed, relieved, her body aching with the effort, mindless as she was tended to, her eyes on the red, squirming bundle that was quickly swaddled and handed to her, her vision of the small face blurred by her hot tears.

Naerys crept closer, at Jon’s quiet encouragement, a small bundle of black fur in her arms that grew larger by the day. Sansa’s gift of a direwolf pup, borne of her own wolf, Lady, had been a most welcome addition, and Naerys had tended to the pup with great care, proclaiming she was practicing for the babe to come.

Dany hadn’t been sure Midnight, as Naerys called the pup, appreciated the effort, but she had accepted it all the same. Eyes of bright, forest green, emerging from a dark muzzle, peered at the babe, a matching set of deep purple following suit, as both girl and pup strained to see what lay now against Dany’s chest.

Jon’s large hand strayed down, his mouth hot on her neck as he pressed a firm, lingering kiss there. She felt the silent shake of him behind her, suspected he wept as well, at the glory of it, that at least the babe was here. No doubt his heart had been claimed anew, as hers had, by the small little being that had caused her no small amount of endless, sleepless nights, little feet lodged firmly in Dany’s ribs, kicking about as though the babe danced when Dany tried to rest.

Oh how things had changed, she thought, smiling absently as the babe in her arms began to root around, searching for her breast, and she unlaced the ties of her loose shift to allow her babe to suckle, wincing at the tight pinch as the newborn latched on.

“What is it, Mama?” Naerys was almost breathless as she watched, her eyes as wide as Dany had ever seen them.

“A girl,” Dany whispered, leaning her head back for a moment against her husband’s chest, finding him wet-faced and beaming as he watched his second daughter nurse at her breast. “Another princess, it seems.”

“Look how beautiful she is,” Jon said quietly, so full of awe and wonder that she had to savor it, had to remind herself that this was new for him. He had been thousands of miles away when Naerys had entered the world, an entry not nearly as peaceful as this had been, and she wanted him to be there for every moment of it. His hand shook as he trailed his fingers along the sweep of dark hair atop the babe’s head.

“A sister!” A happy little whimper escaped the silver-haired girl, and she crept up onto the bed beside her parents, taking in every detail she could see; The pink of the tiny babe’s skin, near-translucent lids covering eyes that remained a mystery, small little upturned nose, and rosy, pouty lips currently trying as best they could to coax a meal from her mother. “Oh, Mama, she’s just like I hoped! She’s so small!”

“You must be very careful,” Jon said gravely, cuffing his hand under Naerys’ chin. “New babes are very fragile.”

“Oh, I know Papa. I will be so, so careful with my sister.” She looked to Dany, a bit unsure. “May a touch her, Mama?” When Dany nodded, the girl’s face lit up, and she traced the shape of the babe’s full cheeks, tickled at a small little fist until it spasmed open and grasped her finger tightly. “Look, she’s holding hands with me!”

Jon chuckled, and sighed against Dany’s hair. “I shall be outnumbered, I think,” he whispered quietly into the shell of Dany’s ear, but she could feel his lips curve upward with the pronouncement.

She was exhausted, her energy spent, and she let herself fall further into his embrace, her eyes closing tiredly as she smiled, as well. “Yes,” she whispered back, “You truly will.” Drowsiness threatened to claim her, but she fought it, unwilling to stop looking at the perfect little babe just yet. “She has your hair,” Dany said, her hand tracing a stray, dark wisp, wondering if it would curl once it grew.

Naerys giggled and cooed at her sister, taking care to be quiet as the babe seemed to drift off into a doze, mouth still working every now and then. She had never felt as complete, Dany mused, the world full of a hazy warmth, that enveloped her completely. She felt safe, she realized, a luxury she had not known well, before.

But she felt it now, her lids drooping of their own volition, and she felt readjust them, so that she might recline more against him. “Sleep,” he urged gently. “I’ve got you. You need your rest, sweet Dany.”

“Not yet,” she murmured, eyes locked on her babe’s sleeping face. “She might open her eyes. I want to see, when she does.”

He hummed in his throat, his fingers coming to thread through hers, against the babe’s head. “What color do you think they will be, hmmm?”

With a contented sigh, she smiled again, as Naerys leaned in to kiss the babe’s cheek, then her mother’s, in turn. “All babes have blue eyes when they are born. We shall have to wait and see.”

His arms tightened around hers, and she felt his lips brush her ear once more. “Well, Naerys has my mother’s eyes. I hope this little lass has yours. Wouldn’t that be fine? Singular eyes.” The soft rumble of his voice against her back was lulling her to sleep, but she heard his final pronouncement before she succumbed to the dark, easy quiet that beckoned. “Eyes like the sea.”


End file.
